PINE  TREE 
BALLADS 


HOLMAN-F-DAY 


University   of 

Calif  orni? 

Irvine 


^    Ca 
\ 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


w       r  ,      37^  " 

t  *     v  > 

X,  A^^. 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Rhymed  Stories  of 

Unplaned  Human  Natur' 

Up  in  Maine 

By 

HOLMAN  F.  DAY 

Author  of  "UP  IN  MAINE" 


Boston 

Small,  Maynard  6?  Company 
1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
H  O  L  MAN   F.    D  A  Y 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 

ps 


fl- 


Published  June,  7902 


FOURTH  THOUSAND,  NOVEMBER,  iqoa 


Press  of 

Riggs  Printing  &*  Publishing  Co. 
Albany,  N.  F.,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  THE  HONORABLE 

JOHN  ANDREW  PETERS,  LL.D. 

FORMER  CHIEF  JUSTICE  OF 
THE  SUPREME  JUDICIAL  COURT  OF  MAINE 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  VOLUME 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MANY  YEARS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

AND  IN   SINCERE  APPRECIATION 

OF  THE  JURIST  AND  WIT 

WHO  HAS  IN   ALL  DIGNITY 

EVER  TURNED  A  SMILING  FACE  TOWARD  HIS  MAINE 
THAT  HAS  SMILED   LOVINGLY   BACK  AT  HIM 


CONTENTS 

OUR  HOME  FOLKS:  PAGE 

Feedin'  the  Stock 3 

John   W.  Jones 7 

Deed  of  the  Old  Home  Place 13 

Thanksgivin'   Jim 17 

"Old  Posh"    21 

The  Sun-Browned  Dads  of  Maine 25 

"  Heavenly  Crown  "  Rich 30 

Old  "  Figger-Four  " 34 

Phebe  and  Ichabod 37 

When  Our  Hero  Comes  to  Maine 39 

Uncle  Tascus  and  the  Deed 42 

SONGS  OF  THE  SEA  AND  SHORE  : 

Tale  of  a  Shag-Eyed  Shark 48 

The  Great  Jeehookibus  Whale 54 

"  As  Beseemeth  Men  " 58 

The  Night  of  the  White  Review 63 

The  Ballad  of  Orasmus  Nute 67 

The   Doryman's   Song 71 

We  Fellers  Diggin'  Clams 73 

Dan'l  and  Dunk 76 

The  Awful  Wah-Hooh-Wow 79 

Skipper  Jason  Ellison 87 

vii 


vlii  CONTENTS 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP:  PAGE 

The  Rapo-Genus  Christmas  Ball 94 

When  the  Allegash  Drive  Goes  Through.   102 
The  Knight  of  the  Spike-Sole  Boots.  . .    105 

"  Board  for  the  Allegash  " no 

The  Wangan  Camp 112 

Plug  Tobacco  at  Sourdnahunk 114 

O'Connor   From   the   Drive..... 116 

JUST  HUMAN  NATURE: 

Ballad  of  Ozy  B.  Orr 122 

The  Ballad  of  "  Old  Scratch  " 127 

When  'Lish  Played  Ox 131 

Old  "  Ten  Per  Cent  " 136 

Didn't  Bust  His  Fork 139 

Mean  Sam  Green 140 

Dickerer  Jim 147 

Ballad  of  Benjamin  Brann 150 

The   Heirs 1 52 

A.  B.  Appleton,  "  Pirut  " 156 

NEXT  TO  THE  HEART  : 

With  Love — From  Mother 161 

The  Quaker  Wedding 163 

The  Madawaska  Wooing 167 

The  Song  of  the  Man  Who  Drives  ....  171 

The  Old  Pewter  Pitcher 174 


CONTENTS  ix 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS:  PAGE 

Our  Liars  Here  in  Maine 178 

The  Ballad  of  Doc  Fluff 181 

The  Ballad  of  Hunneman  Two 185 

Oradudolph     Moody,     Representative- 
Elect 189 

Tribute  to  Mr.  Atkins's  Bass  Voice.  . .  .  191 

Jim's  Translation 195 

Eliphalet   Jones — Inventor 199 

The  Pants  Jemimy  Made 204 

BALLADS  OF  CAPERS  AND  ACTIONS: 

Ballad  of  Elkanah  B.  Atkinson 209 

Ballad  of  Obadi'  Frye 213 

At  the  Old  Folks'  Whang 218 

In  the  Middle  of  the  Road 221 

Drivin'  the  Stage 222 

"Doc"    224 

Another  "  Tea  Rebellion  " 225 

"  Like  an  Old  Cow's  Tail  " 228 

Passing  it  Along 229 

A  Settin'  Hen 230 

Ballad  of  Deacon  Peaslee 231 

The  Worst  Teacher 237 

The  Tuckville  Grand  Ball 240 

The  One-Ring  Show 242 

The  Switch  for  Hiram  Brown 246 

The  Jumper 251 

Ishmael's    Breed 253 


FOREWORD 

THESE  are  plain  tales  of  picturesque 
character-phases  in  Maine  Yankeedom 
from  the  Allegash  to  the  ocean.  These 
are  the  men  whose  hands  are  blistered  by  plow- 
handle  and  ax,  vr  whose  calloused  palms  are 
gouged  by  the  trawls.  Their  heads  are  as  hard 
as  the  stones  piled  around  their  acres.  Their 
wit  is  as  keen  as  the  bush-scythes  with  which 
they  trim  their  rough  pastures.  But  their 
hearts  are  as  soft  as  the  feather  beds  in  their 
spare-rooms. 

The  frontispiece  to  this  volume  is  from  a 
photograph  of  "  Uncle  Solon "  Chase,  the 
widely  known  sage  of  Chase's  Mills  in  Andros- 
coggin  county.  In  Greenback  days  he  won  na 
tional  fame  as  "  Them  Steers  "  and  his  quaint 
sayings  have  traveled  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific.  There  is  no  man  in  Maine  who  better 
typifies  the  homespun  humor,  honesty,  and  in 
telligence  of  Yankeedom.  The  picture  opposite 
page  126  is  from  a  photograph  of  the  late 
Ezra  Stephens  of  Oxford  county,  famed  years 
ago  as  "  the  P.  T.  Barnum  of  Maine."  He 
originated  the  dancing  turkey,  the  wonderful 
bird  that  appears  in  the  story  of  "  Qzy  B.  Orr." 
xi 


xii  FOREWORD 


In  another  picture  is  shown  "  Jemimy " 
at  her  old  loom  and  beside  her  are  the  swifts 
and  the  spinning  wheel.  The  pictures  illustrat 
ing  "  Elkanah  B.  Atkinson"  (a  poem  com 
memorating  a  real  episode  in  the  life  of  Barney 
McGouldrick  of  Cherryfield  Tavern)  and 
"  John  W .  Jones  "  are  character  studies  that 
will  appeal  to  those  who  are  acquainted  with 
Maine  rural  life. 

The  thanks  of  the  author  and  of  the  publish 
ers  are  due  to  The  Saturday  Evening  Post  of 
Philadelphia,  The  Youth's  Companion,  Ains- 
lee's  Magazine,  and  Everybody's  Magazine,  for 
permission  to  include  in  this  volume  verses 
which  originally  appeared  in  their  columns, 
copyrighted  by  them. 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


OUR  HOME   FOLKS 


FEEDIN'  THE  STOCK 

Hear  the  chorus   in   that  tie-up,   runch,  ger- 

runch,  and  runch  and  runch ! 
— There's  a  row  of  honest  critters!     Does  me 

good  to  hear  'em  munch. 
When  the  barn  is  gettin'  dusky  and  the  sun's 

behind  the  drifts, 
— Touchin'  last  the  gable  winder  where  the 

dancin'  hay-dust  sifts, 
When  the  coaxin'  from  the  tie-up  kind  o'  hints 

it's   five  o'clock — 
Wai,  I've  got  a  job  that  suits  me — that's  the 

chore  of  feedin'  stock. 

We've  got  patches  down  to  our  house — honest 

patches,  though,  and  neat, 
But  we'd  rather  have  the  patches  than  to  skinch 

on  what  we  eat. 
Lots  of  work,  and  grub  to  back  ye — that's  a 

mighty  wholesome  creed. 
— Critters  fust,  s'r,  that's  my  motto — give  the 

critters  all  they  need. 
And  the  way  we  do  at  our  house,  marm  and 

me  take  what  is  left, 
3 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


And — wal, — we  ain't  goin'  hungry,  as  you'll 
notice  by  our  heft. 

Drat  the  man  that's  calculatin'  when  he  meas 
ures  out  his  hay, 

Groanin'  ev'ry  time  he  pitches  ary  forkful  out 
the  bay; 

Drat  the  man  who  feeds  out  ruff-scuff,  wood 
and  wire  from  the  swale, 

'Cause  he  wants  to  press  his  herds'-grass,  send 
his  clover  off  for  sale. 

Down  to  our  house  we  wear  patches,  but  it 

ain't  nobody's  biz 
Jest  as  long  as  them  'ere  critters  git  the  best  of 

hay  there  is. 
When  the  cobwebs  on  the  rafters  drip  with 

winter's  early  dusk 
And  the  rows  of  critters'   noses,   damp  with 

breath  as  sweet  as  musk, 
Toss  and  tease  me  from  the  tie-up — ain't  a  job 

that  suits  me  more 
Than  the  feedin'  of  the  cattle — that's  the  reg'- 

lar  wind-up  chore. 

When  I  grain  'em  or  I  meal  'em — wal,  there's 

plenty  in  the  bin, 
And  I  give  'em  quaker  measure  ev'ry  time  I 

dip  down  in; 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS 


And  the  hay,  wal,  now  I've  cut  it,  and  I  own 

it  and  it's  mine 
And  I  jab  that  blamed  old  fork  in,  till  you'd 

think  I'd  bust  a  tine. 
I  ain't  doin'  it  for  praises — no  one  sees  me  but 

the  pup, 
— And  I  get  his  apperbation,  'cause  he  pounds 

his  tail,  rup,  rup! 
No,  I  do  it  'cause  I  want  to;   'cause  I  couldn't 

sleep  a  wink, 
If  I  thought  them  poor  dumb  critters  lacked  for 

fodder  or  for  drink. 
And  to  have  the  scufflin'  barnful  give  a  jolly 

little  blat 

When  you  open  up  o'  mornin's,  ah,  there's  com 
fort,  friend,  in  that! 
And  you've  prob'ly  sometimes  noticed,  when 

his  cattle  hate  a  man, 
That  it's  pretty  sure  his  neighbors  size  him  up 

on  that  same  plan. 

But  I'm  solid  in  my  tie-up ;   when  I've  finished 

up  that  chore, 
I  enjoy  it  standin'  list'nin'  for  a  minit  at  the 

door. 
And  the  rustle  of  the  fodder  and  the  nuzzlin' 

in  the  meal 
And  the  runchin's  of  their  feedin'  make  this 

humble  feller  feel 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


That  there  ain't  no  greater  comfort  than  this 
'ere — to  understand 

That  a  dozen  faithful  critters  owe  their  com 
fort  to  my  hand. 

Oh,  the  dim  old  barn  seems  homelike,  with  its 
overhanging  mows, 

With  its  warm  and  battened  tie-up,  full  of  well- 
fed  sheep  and  cows. 

Then  I  shet  the  door  behind  me,  drop  the  bar 
and  drive  the  pin 

And,  with  Jeff  a-waggin'  after,  lug  the  foamin' 
milk  pails  in. 

That's  the  style  of  things  to  our  house — marm 

and  me  we  don't  pull  up 
Until  ev'ry  critter's  eatin',  from  the  cattle  to 

the  pup. 
Then  the  biskits  and  the  spare-rib  and  plum 

preserves  taste  good, 
For  we're  feelin',  me  and  mother,  that  we're 

actin'  'bout's  we  should. 

Like  as  can  be,  after  supper  mother  sews  an 
other  patch 
And  she  says  the  duds  look  trampy,  'cause  she 

ain't  got  goods  to  match. 
Fust  of  all,  though,  comes  the  mealbins  and 

the  hay-mows;    after  those 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS 


If  there's  any  extry  dollars,  wal,  we'll  see  about 

new  clothes. 
But  to-night,  why,  bless  ye,  mother,  pull  the 

rug  acrost  the  door; 
— Warmth  and  food  and  peace  and  comfort — 

let's  not  pester  God  for  more. 

JOHN  W.  JONES 

A  sort  of  a  double-breasted  face  had  old  John 

W.  Jones, 
Reddened  and  roughened  by  sun  and  wind, 

with  angular  high  cheek-bones. 
At  the  fair,  one  time,  of  the  Social  Guild  he  re 
ceived  unique  renown 
By  being  elected  unanimously  the  homeliest 

man  in  town. 
The  maidens  giggled,  the  women  smiled,  the 

men  laughed  loud  and  long, 
And  old  John  W.  leaned  right  back  and  ho- 

hawed  good  and  strong. 
And  never  was  jest  too  broad  for  him — for  all 

of  the  quip  and  chaff 
That  assailed  his  queer  old  mug  through  life 

he  had  but  a  hearty  laugh. 
"  Ho,  ho  ",  he'd  snort,  "  haw,  haw  ",  he'd  roar; 

"  that's  me,  my  friends,  that's  me ! 


8  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Now  hain't  that  the  most  skew-angled  phiz 

that  ever  ye  chanced  to  see?  " 
And   then   he   would   tell   us   this   little  tale. 

"  'Twas  one  dark  night ",  said  he, 
"  I  was  driving  along  in  a  piece  of  woods  and 

there  wasn't  a  ray  to  see, 
And  all  to  once  my  cart  locked  wheels  with 

another  old  chap's  cart; 
We  gee-ed  and  backed  but  we  hung  there  fast, 

and  neither  of  us  could  start. 
Then  the  stranger  man  he  struck  a  match,  to 

see  how  he'd  git  away, 
And  I  vum,  he  had  the  homeliest  face  I've  seen 

for  many  a  day. 
Wai,  jest  for  a  joke  I  grabbed  his  throat  and 

pulled  my  pipe-case  out, 
And  the  stranger  reckoned  I  had  a  gun,  and  he 

wrassled  good  and  stout. 
But  I  got  him  clown  on  his  back  at  last  and 

straddled  acrost  his  chest, 
And  allowed  to  him  that  he'd  better  plan  to 

go  to  his  last  long  rest. 
He  gasped  and  groaned  he  was  poor  and  old 

and  hadn't  a  blessed  cent, 
And  almost  blubbering  asked  to  know  what 

under  the  sun  I  meant. 
Said  I,    '  I've  sworn  if  I  meet  a  man  that's 

homelier  'n  what  I  be, 


'That  was  Jones,     John  \V.  .Jones. 
Queer,  Gothic  old  struct  lire  of  col>-|iilrd  IUIIICH.'' 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS 


I'll  kill  him.    I  reckin  I've  got  the  man.'     Says 

he,  '  Please  let  me  see? ' 
So  I  loosened  a  bit  while  he  struck  a  match; 

he  held  it  with  trembling  hand 
While  through  the  tears  in  his  poor  old  eyes 

my  cross-piled  face  he  scanned. 
Then  he  dropped  the  match  and  he  groaned 

and  said,  '  If  truly  ye  think  that  I 
Am  ha'f  as  homely  as  what  you  be — please 

shoot !     I  want  to  die.' ' 
And  the  story  always  would  start  the  laugh 

and  Jones  would  drop  his  jaw, 
And   lean   'way   back   and   slap   his   leg   and 

laugh, 

"  Ho,  haw — haw — haw-w-w !  " 
That  was  Jones, 
— John  W.  Jones, 

Queer,  Gothic  old  structure  of  cob-piled  bones ; 
His  droll,  red  face 
Had  not  a  trace 

Of  comeliness  or  of  special  grace ; 
But  I  tell  you,  friends,  that  candor  glowed 

In  those  true  old  eyes — those  deep  old 

eyes, 
And  love  and  faith  and  manhood  showed 

Without  disguise — without  disguise. 
Though  he  certainly  won  a  just  renown 
As  the  homeliest  man  we  had  in  town. 


io  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  never  had  married — that  old  John  Jones; 

he'd  grubbed  on  his  little  patch, 
Supported  his  parents  until  they  died,  and  then 

he  had  lived  "  old  bach  ". 
We  had  some  suspicions  we  couldn't  prove: 

for  years  had  an  unknown  man 
Distributed  gifts  to  the  poor  in  town  on  a  sort 

of  a  Santa  Claus  plan. 
If  a  worthy  old  widow  was  needing  wood — 

some  night  would  that  wood  be  left, 
There  was  garden  truck  placed  in  the  barns  of 

those  by  mishap  or  drought  bereft. 
And  once  when  the  night  was  clear  and  bright 

in  the  glorious  month  of  June, 
Poor    broken-legged    Johnson's    garden    was 

hoed  in  the  light  of  the  great  white  moon. 
And  often  some  farmer  by  sickness  weighed, 

and  weary,  discouraged  and  poor, 
Would  find  a  wad  of  worn  old  bills  tucked 

carefully  under  his  door. 
And  the  tracks  in  the  sod  of  this  man  who  trod 

by  night  on  his  secret  routes 
Were  suspiciously  like  the  other  tracks  that 

were  left  by  John  Jones'  boots. 
And  the  wheel-marks  wobbled  extremely  like 

the  trail  of  Jones'  old  cart, 
But  whatever  his  mercies  he  hid  them  all  in  the 

depths  of  his  warm  old  heart. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  n 

For  whenever  the  neighbors  would  pin  him 

down,  he'd  lift  his  faded  hat, 
"  Now,  say  ",  he'd  laugh,  "  can  a  man  be  good 

with  a  physog  such  as  that  ?  " 
Then  came  the  days — the  black,   dread  days 

when  the  small-pox  swept  our  town, 
With  pest-house  crowded  from  sill  to  eaves  and 

the  nurses  "  taken  down." 
And  panic  reigned  and  the  best  went  wild  and 

even  the  doctors  fled, 
And  scarce  was  there  one  to  aid  the  sick  or 

bury  the  awful  dead. 
But  there  in  that  pest  house  day  and  night  a 

man  with  quiet  tones 
And  steady  heart  kept  still  at  work — and  that 

was  old  John  Jones. 
While  ever  his  joke  was,  "What!     Afraid? 

Why,  gracious  me,  I'm  fine, 
And  if  I  weren't,  a  few  more  dents  won't  harm 

this  face  of  mine  ". 
But  those  who  writhed  and  moaned  in  pain 

within  that  loathsome  place 
Saw  beauty  not  of  man  and  earth  upon  that 

gnarled  old  face. 
And  when  he  eased  their  pain-racked  forms  or 

brought  the  cooling  draught, 
They  wondered  if  this  saint  could  be  the  man 

at  whom  they'd  laughed. 


12  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  thus  he  fought,  unwearied,  brave,  until 

the  Terror  passed, 
— And  then,  poor  old  John  W.  Jones,  he  had 

the  small-pox  last. 
And  worn  by  vigils,  toil,  and  fast,  the  fate  he 

had  defied 
Descended  on  him,  stern  and  fierce, — he  died, 

my  friends,  he  died. 
They  held  one  service  at  the  church  for  all  the 

village  dead. 
The  pastor,  when  he  came  to  Jones,  he  choked 

a  bit  and  said: 
"  If  handsome  is  as  handsome  does — and  now 

I  say  to  you 

I  verily — I  honestly  believe  that  saying  true. 
— If  handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  we  had 

right  here  in  town 
A    man    whose    beauty    fairly    shone — from 

Heaven  itself  brought  down. 
At  first,  perhaps,  we  failed  to  grasp  the  con 
tour  of  that  face, 
But  now  with  God's  own  light  on  it  we  see  its 

perfect  grace. 

And  so  I  say  our  handsomest  man  " — the  pas 
tor  hushed  his  tones, 
With  streaming  eyes  looked  up  and  said,  "  was 

old  John  W.  Jones  ". 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  13 

Such  was  Jones, 

— John  W.  Jones, 
Queer,  Gothic  old  structure  of  cob-piled  bones ; 

His  quaint,  red  face 

Had  not  a  trace 

Of  comeliness  or  of  special  grace. 
But  I  tell  you,  friends,  we  drop  this  shell, 

Just  over  There — just  over  There! 
Good  thoughts,  good  deeds,  good  hearts  will 
tell 

In  moulding  souls,  serene  and  fair, 
And  Jones  will  stand  with  harp  and  crown, 
The  handsomest  angel  from  our  old  town. 


DEED  OF  THE  OLD  HOME  PLACE 

Slowly  the  toil-cramped,  gnarled  old  fist 

Wrought  at  the  sheet  with  a  rasping  pen ; 
Halted  with  tremulous  quirk  and  twist, 

Staggered,  and  then  went  on  again. 
The  wan  sun  peeped  through  the  wee  patched 
pane 

And    checkered    the   floor   where   the   pale 

beams  shone 
In  a  quaint  old  kitchen  up  in  Maine, 

With  an  old  man  writing  there  alone. 


14  PIXE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  the  pen  wrought  on  and  the  head  drooped 

low 

And  a  tear  plashed  down  on  the  rusted  pen, 
As  it  traced  a  verse  of  the  long  ago 

That   his   grief   had   brought   to   his   heart 

again. 
"  Be  kind  to  thy  father  for  when  thou  wast 

young, 

irho  loz'ed  thee  so  fondly  as  he? 
He  caught  the  first  accents  that  fell  from 

thy  tongue, 

And  joined  in  tliv  innocent  glee. 
Be  kind  to  thy  father  for  no-w  he  is  old, 

His  locks  intermingled  with  gray; 
His  footsteps  are  feeble,  once  fearless  and 

bold 

Thy  father  is  passitig  away. 
Be  kind  to  thy  mother  for  lo,  on  her  brow, 

May  traces  of  sorrow  be  seen. 
Oh,  well  mayst  thou  cherish  and  comfort 

her  now, 

For  loi'ing  and  kind  has  she  been. 
Remember  thy  mother,  for  thee  she  will 

pray 

As  long  as  God  gireth  her  breath 
With  accents  of  kindness;  then  cheer  her 

hard  way 
E'en  thro'  the  dark  valley  of  death." 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  15 

Listlessly  threshed  in  a  careless  court 

The  poor,  plain  tale  of  a  home  was  told, 
Furnishing  food  for  the  lawyers'  sport 

And  a  jest  at  the  fond  and  the  foolish  old. 
The  counsel  said  as  he  winked  an  eye, 

"  Deeded  the  farm  to  their  only  son ; 
And  after  'twas  deeded  they  didn't  die 

Quite  as  quick  as  they  should  have  done." 

Drearily  dragged  the  homely  case, 

Petty  and  mean  in  all  its  parts; 
Quest  thro'  the  law  for  an  old  home  place, 

— But  never  a  word  of  two  broken  hearts. 
Only  a  suit  where  the  son  and  wife 

Pledged  themselves  when  they  coaxed  the 

deed, 
To  comfort  the  close  of  the  old  folks'  life : 

— Only  another  case  where  greed 
Sneered  at  the  toil  of  the  long,  hard  years 

Of  martyrdom  to  the  hoe  and  axe, 
Writ  in  wrinkles  and  etched  in  tears 

And  told  in  the  curve  of  the  old  bent  backs, 
— Bent  in  the  strife  with  the  rocky  soil, 

\Yhen  the  grinding  work  was  never  done, 
With  just  one  rift  in  the  cloud  of  toil: 

— Twas  all  for  the  sake  of  their  only  son. 
Simply  a  tedious  legal  maze 

With  neighbors  stirring  the  thing  for  sport, 


1 6  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  loungers  eyeing  with  listless  gaze 

This  queer  old  couple  dragged  to  court. 
Meekly  they  would  have  granted  greed 

All  that  it  sought  for — all  its  spoil; 
Little  they  valued  a  forfeit  deed, 

Nor  selfishly  reckoned  their  years  of  toil. 
Heartsick  they  while  the  lawyers  urged, 

Mute  when  the  law  vouchsafed  their  prayer ; 
— Courts  soothe  not  such  grief  as  surged 

In  the  hearts  of  the  old  folks  trembling  there. 

What  though  the  jury's  word  restored 

The  walls  and  roof  of  the  old  home  place? 
Would  it  give  them  back  the  blessed  hoard 

Of  trust  that  knew  no  son's  disgrace? 
Would  it  give  them  back  his  boyhood  smiles, 

His  boyhood  love,  their  simple  joy, 
Would  it  heal  the  wounds  of  these  afterwhiles, 

And  make  him  again  their  own  dear  boy? 
Would  it  soothe  the  smart  of  the  cruel  words, 

Of  sullen  looks  and  cold  neglect? 
And  dull  the  taunts  that  pierced  like  swords 

And  slashed  where  the  wielders  little  recked  ? 
No;  Justice  gives  the  walls  and  roof, 

— To  palsied  hands  a  cancelled  deed, 
Rebuking  with  a  stern  reproof 

A  son's  unfilial,  shameless  greed. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  17 

But  love  that  made  that  old  home  warm, 

And  hope  that  made  all  labor  sweet, 
The  glow  of  peace  that  shamed  the  storm 

And  melted  on  the  pane  the  sleet ; 
And  faith  and  truth  and  loving  hearts 

And  tender  trust  in  fellow  men — 
Ah,  these,  my  friend,  no  lawyers'  arts 

Can  give  again,  can  give  again. 

THANKSGIVIN'  JIM 

He  always   dodged   'round  in  a  ragged  old 

coat, 
With  a  tattered,  blue  comforter  tied  on  his 

throat. 

His  dusty  old  cart  used  to  rattle  and  bang 
As  he  yelled  through  the  village,  "  Gid  dap !  " 

and"Go'lang!" 
You'd  think  from  his  looks  that  he  wa'n't  wuth 

a  cent; 
— Was  poorer  than  Pooduc,  to  judge  how  he 

went. 

But  back  in  the  country  don't  reckon  on  style 
To  give  ye  a  notion  of  anyone's  pile. 
When  he  died  and  they  figgered  his  pus'nal 

estate, 

He  was  mighty  well-fixed — was  old  "  Squeal- 
in'  Jim  "  Waite. 


i8  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

But  say,  I'd  advise  ye  to  sort  of  look  out 

How   ye    say    "  Squealin'    Jim "    when    the's 

widders  about. 

They're  likely  to  light  on  ye,  hot  tar  and  pitch, 
And  give  ye  some  points  as  to  what,  where  and 

which ; 

For  if  ever  a  critter  was  reckoned  a  saint 
By  the  widders  'round  here,  I'll  be  dinged  if  he 

ain't. 
For  please  understand  that  the  widders  call 

him, 
— Sheddin'    tears    while    they're    sayin'    it, — 

"  Thanksgivin'  Jim  ". 
He  was  little — why, 
Wa'n't  scarce  knee  high 
To  a  garden  toad.     But  was  mighty  spry ! 
He  was  all  of  a  whew 
If  he'd  things  to  do! 
'Twas   a   zip   and   a   streak   when   Jim   went 

through. 

But  his  voice  was  twice  as  big  as  him 
And  the  boys  all  called  him  "  Squealin'  Jim  ". 

He  was  always  a-hurryin'  all  through  his  life 
And  said  there  wa'n't  time  for  to  hunt  up  a 

wife. 
So  he  kept  bach's  hall  and  he  worked  like  a 

dog, 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  19 

— Jest  whooped  right  along  at  a  trottin'  hoss 

jog- 
There's  a  yarn  that  the  fellers  that  knew  him 

will  tell 
If  they  want  to  set  Jim  out  and  set  him  out 

well: 

He  was  bound  for  the  city  on  bus'ness  one  day 
And  whoosh !  scooted  down  to  the  depot,  they 

say. 
The  depot-man  says,   "  Hain't  no   rush,   Mr. 

Waite, 

For  the  train  to  the  city  is  ten  minutes  late  ". 
Off  flew  Squealin'  Jim  with  his  grip,  on  the 

run, 
And  away  down  the  track  he  went  'hoofin'  like 

fun. 
When  he  tore  out  of  sight,  couldn't  see  him 

for  dust 
And  he  squealed,  "  Train  be  jiggered !     I'll  git 

there,  now,  fust !  " 

— So  nervous  and  active  he  jest  wouldn't  wait 
When  they  told  him  the  train  was  a  leetle  dite 

late. 

Now  that  was  Jim ! 
He  was  stubby  and  slim 

But  it  took  a  spry  critter  to  step  up  with  him. 
His  height  when  he'd  rise 
Made  ye  laugh,  but  his  eyes 


20  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Let  ye  know  that  his  soul  wasn't  much  uncler- 

size. 

And  some  old  widders  we  had  in  town 
Insisted,  reg'lar,  he  wore  a  crown. 

As  he  whoopity-larruped  along  on  his  way, 
There  were  people  who'd  turn  up  their  noses 

and  say 
That  Squealin'  Jim  Waite  wasn't  right  in  his 

head; 

He  was  cranky  as  blazes,  the  old  growlers  said. 
I   can   well   understand   that   some   things   he 

would  do 

Seemed  loony  as  time  to  that  stingy  old  crew. 
For  a  fact,  there  was  no  one  jest  like  him  in 

town, 

He  was  most  always  actin'  the  part  of  a  clown ; 
He    would    say    funny   things    in    his   queer, 

squealin'  style, 
And  he  talked  so's  you'd  hear  him  for  more 

than  a  mile. 
But  ev'ry  Thanksgivin'  time  Waite  he  would 

start 
And  clatter  through  town  in  his  rattlin'  old 

cart, 
And  what  do  ye  s'pose?     He  would  whang 

down  the  street, 
Yank  up  at  each  widder's ;  from  under  the  seat 


21 


Would  haul  out  a  turkey  of  yaller-legged  chick 
And  holler,  "  Here,  mother,  h'ist  out  with  ye, 

quick!" 
Then  he'd  toss  down  a  bouncer  right  into  her 

lap 
And  belt  off  like  fury  with,  "  G'long,  there! 

Gid  dap !  " 
Didn't  wait  for  no  thanks — couldn't  work  'em 

on  him, 

— Couldn't    catch    him    to    thank    him — that 
Thanksgivin'  Jim. 

'Twas  a  queer  idee 
'Round  town  that  he 

Was  off'n  his  balance  and  crazy's  could  be. 
They'd  set  and  chaw 
And  stew  and  jaw, 
And  projick  on  what  he  did  it  for. 
But  prob'ly  in  Heaven  old  Squealin'  Jim 
Found  lots  of  crazy  folks  jest  like  him. 

"OLD  POSH" 

Cheerful  crab  was  that  old  Posh, 
— Warn't  afflicted  much  with  dosh, 
—Fact,  he  worked  round  sawin'  wood, 
Earnin'  what  few  cents  he  could, 
Got  that  name  o'  Posh  in  fun; 
Dad  had  named  him  Washington; 


PIXE  TREE  BALLADS 


Children  got  to  call  him  "  Wash," 

Then  it  last  'twas  jest  "  Old  Posh." 
That's  the  way,  you  know,  a  name 

S  r  rt  ci  nt;  i"ct  i  v.~i~  ~   ~~""e; 

Wculd  hive  cihei  hi:::  \Yi;h:::ct;:t. 
But  -  Old  Posh  "  wis  just  25  g-;;d 
F;r  a  c:-:r  chic  siv.-i::'  \v::d. 


Critter  never  made  no  talk, 

—  Made  his  old  saw  screak  and  scrawk, 
Earat  his  dollar'n  ten  a  day, 

—  Didn't  leave  much  time  for  play. 
Had  a  wife  and  boys  to  keep, 
Reelly  had  to  skinch  his  sleep. 
I've  been  out,  s'r,  late  at  night 
Seen  him  at  it  good  and  tight, 
Where  he'd  took  it  to  be  sawed 
At  a  dollar'n  ten  a  cord. 

And  I'd  say.  "  Ye"  re  at  it  k:e." 
Ther.  he'd  —  :n:  hirr.se'.:  u;    anight. 
SMck  his  for'ead  clear  of  sweat 
And  he'd  say.  "  \\"al.  you  jest  bet  ! 
Bankin'  hours  don't  jibe  in  good 
With  this  job  ci  5Swm'  wood. 
StilL  whe-  thi?   ere  don't  sui:  me 
I  kir.  =:     :.:.  1   .'.:..'    '^  tree." 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  23 

That's  the  crack  he  allus  sent; 

— I  donno  jest  what  he  meant — 

Likely  'nough,  s'r,  even  he 

Didn't  have  no  clear  idee. 

Still  it  seemed  to  fix  the  thing; 

— He'd  commence  to  saw  and  sing, 

'S  if  at  anytime  he  could 

Git  clean  shet  of  sawin'  wood. 

So  he  worked,  s'r.  all  his  life, 

Kept  his  children  and  his  wife; 

Boys  amount  to  more'n  you'd  suppose 

— Got  good  jobs  and  wear  good  clothes. 

If  they'd  turned  out  shiftless,  gosh, 

Xever'd  took  the  thing  from  Posh! 

Posh,  he  died  at  seventy-one. 
— Worked  right  up  till  set  of  sun, 
Sawed  his  regTar  cord  that  day, 
Et  his  supper  regular  way, 
Told  his  wife  warn't  feelin'  well; 
Said  he  guessed  he'd  drowse  a  spell. 
For  he  reckoned,  so  he  said. 
That  he'd  saw  a  while  'fore  bed. 
— Warn't  no  need  of  workin'  so, 
Boys  was  earnin'  well,  ye  know, 
But  he  couldn't  seem  to  quit, 
— At  it  stiddy.  saw  and  split 


24  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Set  that  night  there  in  his  chair, 
— Got  to  dreamin',  and  I  swear, 
Snores  they  sounded  near's  they  could 
Like  a  feller  sawin'  wood. 
Last  he  gave  a  mighty  "  plock  " 
Same's  he'd  strike  a  choppin'  block, 
When  he'd  set  his  ax  an'  say, 
"  Wai,  I  guess  that's  all  to-day." 
Doctor  got  there  quick's  he  could, 
— Said  he  couldn't  do  no  good. 
Shock,  ye  know !     It  left  things  slim 
When  a  man  has  worked  like  him. 

"  Hav'  to  rest,  I  guess,  a  while," 
Posh  said,  with  a  crooked  smile, 
— Shock  had  twisted  round  his  face, 
Alwus  does  in  such  a  case. 
"  Hav'  to  rest,  I  reckin,  for 
Feel  too  tuckered  out  to  saw." 
Jest  a  little  'fore  he  died. 
Smiled  agin  and  kind  of  sighed, 
"  Guess  it's  all  that's  left,"  said  he, 
"  Reckin'  I'll  go  climb  a  tree." 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  25 

THE  SUN-BROWNED  DADS  OF  MAINE 

Here's  ho  for  the  masterful  men  o'  Maine, 
— Grit  and  gumption,  brawn  and  brain! 
South  they  go  and  West  they  flow, 
The  men  that  do  and  the  men  that  know. 
And  Fame  and  Honor,  Power  and  Gain 
Come  to  the  call  of  the  men  o'  Maine. 
But  away  up  back  on  the  rock-piled  farms 
Are  the  gnarled  old  dads  with  corded  arms, 
The  dads  that  give  these  boys  o'  Maine 
Health  and  strength  and  grit  and  brain. 
Now  the  masterful  men  who  have  gone  their 

ways 

Need  none  of  my  humble  words  of  praise. 
S'o,  here's  best  I  have  for  the  dads,  the  ones 
Who  have  slaved  and  saved  to  raise  those  sons. 
Here's  hail  and  again  for  the  Maine-bred  lads, 
Then  a  triple  hail  for  the  dear  old  Dads. 

They  are  bowed  and  bent  and  wrinkled,  and 

their  hands  are  browned  and  knurled 
They  would  never  pass  as  heroes  in  the  busy, 

careless  world, 
For  they  bear  no  sword  or  ribbon,  and  they 

show  no  victor's  spoil, 
Only  such  as  they  have  wrested  from  the  weeds 

and  rocky  soil. 


26  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

They  have  wrung  reluctant  dollars  from  the 

land,  and  all  their  gain 
Has  been   spent  to  nurture  manhood  in  the 

rugged  State  of  Maine. 
And    they   need   no   decorations,    only   loving 

thanks  from  those 
Who  built  upon  the  sacrifice  that  bought  their 

books  and  clothes. 
I  bring  some  homely  laurel  for  those  wrinkled, 

sunburned  brows 
Of    men   whose   hands    are   blistered    by    the 

scythe-snaths  and  the  plows, 
— For  men  who  wrestle  Nature  with  their  bare 

and  corded  arms 
In  an  everlasting  struggle  with  these  grudging 

old  Maine  farms, 
Who  lay  their  lives  and  hopes  and  joys  'neath 

labor's  bitter  rule 
To  coax  from  'sullen  Earth  the  price  that  keeps 

their  boys  in  school. 
In  manhood  of  America — 'mongst  brawn  and 

pluck  and  brain, 
Set  high  these  humble  heroes  of  the  upland 

farms  of  Maine! 
And  with  the  cheers  you  lavish  on  the  men 

behind  the  guns 
Crowd  in  one  honest,  sincere  shout  for  those 

behind  the  sons. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  27 

They  labor  here  in  stern  old  Maine  and  every 

cent  is  ground 
From  out  the  earth  by  pluck  and  plod.     In 

youth  they  never  found 
That  open  sesame  to  wealth  the  cultured  mind 

employs, 
Such  as  to-day  their  humble  toil  bestows  upon 

their  boys. 
Those  crosses  signed  by  toil-cramped  hands  in 

probate  courts  in  Maine 
The  wavering  quirks  and  curliques  no  mortal 

can  explain, 
Those  speak  with  pathos  all  their  own  of  days 

of  long  ago 
When  "  bound-out  "  children  trudged  to  school 

through  miles  of  drifted  snow; 
When  scattered  weeks  of  schoolin'  in  the  win 
ter  time  were  doled 
To  hungry  little  youngsters,  ill-clad  and  numb 

with  cold. 
Now   you'll   find   them,    grown   to   manhood, 

proud  and  eager  to  dilate 
On  the  brightness  of  the  children  they  have 

paid  to  educate. 
They  have  patiently  worn  patches  that  their 

boys  may  wear  good  clothes; 
As  they've  struggled  on  their  acres  only  God, 

the  Father,  knows 


28  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

All    the   makeshifts    and   privations   of   these 

rocky  old  Maine  farms 
Where  the  boys  walk  straight  to  comfort  over 

toiling  dads  and  marms. 
Yet    those    bent    and    weary    parents    ask    no 

praises  from  the  world, 
Their  comfort  is  to  push  a  son  as  high  as  their 

old,  knurled, 
And  aching  muscles  can  reach  up;  and,  when 

they  pass  away, 
To  know  that  he  will  never  work  one  half  as 

hard  as  they. 
Such  is  the  stuff  our  heroes  are,  and  when  you 

cheer  the  guns 

And  those  behind  them,  reckon  in  the  men  be 
hind  the  sons. 

The  zeal  and  valor  of  the  land  in  battle's  crash 
and  blaze 

And  deeds  of  heroes  seeking  fame  must  win 
due  meed  of  praise, 

And  yet  above  them  all  I  set  the  humble  sacri 
fice 

Of  toiling  men  who  cent  by  cent  amass  the 
hard-won  price 

That  buys  the  Future  for  a  boy,  bestows  the 
magic  "  Can," 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  29 

Lays  Power  in  his  eager  grasp  and  sends  him 

forth  A  Man. 

So,  unto  these  bowed,  weary  men  with  earth- 
stained,  calloused  palms, 
Who  daily  tread  the  up-turned  soil  on  rough 

and  rocky  farms, 
Who  pile  their  hoard  of  dollars  up,  by  sturdy 

labor  won, 
Who  pour  those  dollars  freely  out  to  educate 

a  son, 
To  all  of  these  who  seek  no  crown  I  bring  my 

wreath  of  bay 
And  set  it  on  their  sun-tanned  brows  and  on 

their  locks  of  gray, 
And  when  their  dreary,  long  campaign,  their 

bitter  toil  is  done, 
God  grant  that  each  may  live  again,  new-born 

in  honored  son. 
Then    three    times    three,    I    say    again,    for 

Maine's  true  heroes  now, 
Whose  hands  are  blistered,  gnarled,  and  worn 

by  scythe-snath  and  the  plow, 
Who   vow   themselves   to  poverty,    accept   its 

bitter  rule 
To  coax  from  sullen  Earth  the  price  that  keeps 

their  sons  in  school. 


30  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Cheer  if  you  will  for  those  who  kill — the  men 

behind  the  guns, 
But  cheer  again  for  those  who  build — the  men 

behind  the  sons. 


"  HEAVENLY  CROWN  "  RICH 

Elias  Rich  would  kneel  at  night  by  the  wooden 

kitchen  chair, 
He  would  clutch  the  rungs  and  bow  his  head 

and  pray  his  bed-time  prayer. 
And  his  prayer  was  ever  the  same  old  plea, 

repeated  for  two-score  years : 
"  Oh,   Lord  Most   High,   please  hear  my  cry 

from  this  vale  of  sin  and  tears. 
I  hain't  no  'count  and  I  hain't  done  much  that's 

worthy  in  Thy  sight, 
But  I've  done  the  best  that  I  could,  dear  Lord, 

accordin'  to  my  light. 
I've  done  as  much  for  my  feller  man  as  really, 

Lord,  I  could, 
Consid'rin'  my  pay  is  a  dollar  a  day  and  I've 

earnt  it  choppin'  wood. 
I've   never   hankered   no   great   on   earth   for 

more'n  my  food  and  roof, 
And  all  of  the  meat  that  I've  had  to  eat  was 

cut  near  horn  or  hoof; 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  31 

But  I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  I've  earnt  my 
way  and  I  hain't  got  '  on  the  town,' 

And  when  I  die  I  know  that  I  shall  sartin  wear 
a  crown." 

Whenever  he  mumbled  his  simple  prayer  in 

the  kitchen  by  his  chair, 
Aunt  Rich  would  rattle  the  supper  pans  and 

sniff  with  a  scornful  air. 
She'd  never  "  professed,"  as  the  saying  is,  she 

never  had  felt  a  "  call," 
And    she    constantly     prodded     Elias    with, 

"  'Tain't  prayer  that  counts,  it's  sprawl." 
There  are  some  who  are  born  for  the  pats  of 

Life  and  some  for  the  cuffs  and  whacks, 
Elias  fought  the  wolf  of  want  as  best  he  might 

with  his  axe; 
He  even  aided  with  scanty  store  some  desolate 

Tom  or  Jim, 
But  at  last  when  his  poor  old  arms  gave  out  no 

hands  were  reached  to  him. 
Folks  said  that  a  man  who  was  paralyzed  re 
quired  some  special  care, 
And  allowed  that  the  poor  farm  was  the  place; 

so  they  carried  the  old  folks  there. 
'Twas  a  heavy  cross  for  Elias'  wife  but  Elias 

ne'er  complained, 


32  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

To  all  of  her  f rettings  he  made  reply :   "  When 

our  Heavenly  Home  is  gained, 
'Twill  be  the  sweeter  for  troubles  here  and 

though  we're  on  the  town, 
God  keeps  up  There  our  mansion  fair  and  He 

has  our  golden  crown." 

They  were  dreary  years  that  Elias  lived,  one 

half  of  his  body  dead, 
He  sat  in  his  cold,  bare,  town-farm  room  and 

patiently  spelled  and  read 
The  promise  his  old  black  Bible  gave,  and  then 

he'd  lift  his  eyes 
And  look  right  up  through  the  dingy  walls  to 

his  mansion  in  the  skies. 
They     mockingly     called     him      "  Heavenly 

Crown  "  when  he  talked  of  his  faith,  but 

he 
Smiled  sweetly  ever  and  meekly  said,  "  I  know 

what  I  can  see !  " 
When  he  died  at  last  and  the  parson  preached 

above  the  stained,  pine  box, 
He  said,  "  Perhaps  this  simple  faith  was  a  bit 

too  orthodox; 
Perhaps   allowance   should   be   made   for   the 

metaphors  divine 
And  yet,  my  friends,  I'll  not  presume  to  make 

such  province  mine. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  33 

Though  in  that  Book  the  highest  thought  can 

find  transcendent  food, 
'Tis  primer,  too,  for  the  poor  and  plain,  the 

unlearned  and  the  rude. 
And  so  I  say  no  man  to-day  should  seek  to  tear 

it  down, 
Nor  flout  the  homely,  honest  soul  that  claims 

its  golden  crown." 

Friends  placed   above  Elias'   grave    a    plain, 

white   marble    stone, 
And  months  went  by.     Then  all  at  once  'twas 

•seen  that  there  had  grown 
Upon  the  polished  marble  slab  a  shading  that, 

'twas  said, 
Took  on  a  shape  extremely  like  Elias'  shaggy 

head. 
Then  soon  above  the  shadowy  brows  a  crown 

was  slowly  limned, 
And  though  Aunt  Rich  scrubbed  zealously  the 

thing  could  not  be  dimmed. 

She  always  scoffed  Elias'  faith  without  rebuke 

through  life 
But    now,    the   neighbors    all    averred,    Elias 

braved  his  wife. 
For  though  with  brush  and  soap  and  sand  she 

scrubbed  and  rubbed  by  day, 


34  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

The   figure   seemed   to  grow   each   night  and 

those  there  are  who  say 
That  many  a  time  when  the  moon  was  dim  a 

wraith  with  ghostly  skill 
Wrought  there  with  spectral  brush  and  limned 

that  picture  deeper  still. 
And  there  it  is  unto  this  day  and  strangers 

passing  by 
Turn  in  and  stand  above  the  mound  to  gaze 

with  awe-struck  eye, 

And  wonder  if  Elias  came  from  Heaven  steal 
ing  down 
To  mutely  say  in  this  quaint  way  that  now  he 

wears  his  crown. 


OLD  "  FIGGER-FOUR  " 

He  played  when  summer  sunsets  glowed  and 

twilight  deepened  down, 
His  shrilling  flute  throbbed  out  and  out  in  the 

ears  of  the  little  town; 
When  the  chores  were  done  and  his  cattle  fed 

and  the  old  horse  munched  his  oats, 
He  took  his  flute  to  his  racked  old  porch  and 

chirped  his  wavering  notes. 
And  far  and  wide  on  the  evening  breeze  from 

the  old  house  on  the  hill, 


35 


Went  trinkling  off  the  thin,  long  strains,  like 

the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will. 
And  the  women  paused  with  the  supper  things 

and  harkened  at  the  door, 
And  to  the  questioning  stranger  said,  "  Why, 

that's  old  Figger-Four." 

He  bobbed  to  his  work  in  his  little  field  and 

tidied  his  lonesome  home; 
He'd  the  light  of  peace  in  his  quiet  face,  though 

his  shape  was  that  of  a  gnome. 
One  knee  was  angled,   hooked  and  stiff,   the 

mark  of  a  fever  sore, 
And   the   saucy  wits  of   the  countryside  had 

dubbed  him  "  Figger-Four." 
Yet  those  who  knew  him  never  thought  of  the 

twist  in  the  poor,  bent  limb, 
And  only  strangers  had  a  smile  for  the  name 

bestowed  on  him. 
For  if  ever  a  man  was  a  neighbor  true,  that 

man,  my  friend,  was  he, 
And  the  name  he  bore  of  "  Figger-Four  "  was 

our  symbol  of  constancy. 

'Twas  he  who  came  to  the  stricken  homes  and 

closed  the  dead  men's  eyes; 
'Twas  he  who  watched  by  the  poor  men's  biers 

with  a  care  no  money  buys ; 


36  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

'Twas  he  who  sat  by  the  fretful  sick,  and  ne'er 

could  rash  complaint 
Disturb  the  placid  soul  and  smile  of  the  gnarled 

old  village  saint. 
And  all  came  straight  from  out  his  heart,  for 

when  one  spoke  of  pay, 
He  simply  smiled  a  wistful  smile  and  said: 

"  That  ain't  my  way." 
A  glistening  eye  was  prized  by  him  above  a 

golden  store; 
An,  earnest  clasp  of  neighbor's  hand  paid  every 

debt  and  more. 
And  when  there  was  no  call  for  him  from  Tom, 

or  Dick  or  Jim, 
He  took  his  lip-stained  flute  and  played  a  good 

old  gospel  hymn. 

So,  when  the  placid,  sunset  skies  were  banked 

above  the  town, 
To  every  home  and  every  ear  those  notes  came 

softly  down. 
And  truly,  friend,  it  used  to  seem  the  good  old 

man  would  play, 
As  if,  for  lack  of  else  to  do,  to  pipe  our  cares 

away. 
And  tongues  were  hushed  and  heads  were  bent, 

and  angry  home  dispute 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  37 

Gave   way   to    silence,    then   to    smiles,    when 

"  Figger-Four's  "  old  flute 
Sent  down  its  long-drawn,  mild  reproach  from 

off  the  little  hill- 
Expostulation  in  its  notes,  a  pleading  in  its 

thrill. 
And  somehow,  though  the  hearts  were  hot  and 

tongues  were  stirring  fray, 
Those  dripping  tones  came  down  like  balm  and 

cooled  the  wrath  away. 
He'd  lived  his  lesson  in  our  gaze;    he  was  not 

one  who  talked; 
His  life  was  straight,  although,  alas,  he  bobbed 

so  when  he  walked ! 
And  though  we've  lost  our  richest  men,   we 

mourn  far  more,  far  more, 
The  man  we  loved  and  who  loved  us,  poor  bent 

old  "  Figger-Four." 

PHEBE  AND  ICHABOD 

Allus  was  rowin'  it,  early  and  late, 

— Niff  against  this  one  an'  niff  against  that! 

With  a  voice  like  a  whistle,  too  big  for  her 

weight, 

That  was  the  make-up  of  Aunt  Phebe  Pratt. 
S'he'd  give  it  to  Ichabod,  hot-pitch-and-tar, 
Yappin'  as  soon  as  he  came  to  the  house; 


38  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Allus  was  hankerin'  after  a  jar, 
Allus  was  ready  to  kick  up  a  touse. 
But  Ichabod  he  was  as  calm  as  a  lamb, 
Never  talked  back  to  her,  no,  s'r,  not  he — 
Reckin  that  some  men  would  rip  out  a  damn. 
But  he  was  the  mildest  that  ever  ye  see. 
He'd  set  an'  he'd  whistle  an'  whistle  away, 
Waitin'  all  patient  ontil  she  got  through ; 
She'd  scream,   "  Drat  ye,  answer !  "  but   Ick 

he  would  say, 

"  Mother,  ye're  talkin'  a  plenty  for  two. 
Who-o-o,  who-o-o, 

Whoo-o,  who-o-o! 
Nothin'  to  say,  mother!     List'nun  to  you." 

Phebe  is  dead  an'  has  gone  to  her  rest; 

Ichabod  lives  in  the  house  all  alone; 

• — Ick  isn't  lonesome  because,  so  'tis  guessed, 

He  still  hears  the  echoes  of  Aunt  Phebe's  tone. 

'Tis  reckoned  his  ears  were  so  used  to  the  clack, 

He  somehow  er'  ruther  still  thinks  she  is  there; 

Kind  of  imagines  that  Phebe  is  back, 

An'  still  is  a-goin'  it,  whoopity-tear ! 

Or  p'raps  she  has  'ranged  it  by  long-distance 

line, 

From  her  latest  location,  Above  or  Below, 
To  keep  up  her  reg'lar  old  yappin'  an'  whine, 
For  fear  the  old  man  will  at  last  have  a  show. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  39 

For   he   sets   there   an'   whistles   an'   whistles 

away, 

Whenever  there's  nothin'  in  'special  to  do; 
An'  once  in  a  while  he'll  look  up  an'  he'll  say, 
"  Mother,  ye're  talkin'  a  plenty  for  two. 
Who-o-o,  who-o-o, 

Who-o-o,  who-o-o! 
Nothin'  to  say,  mother!     List'nun  to  you." 


WHEN  OUR  HERO  COMES  TO  MAINE 

Though  the  banners  greet  his  coming  when  our 

hero  journeys  home, 
Though  the  city,  wreathed  in  colors,  bears  his 

name  on  flag-wrapt  dome; 
Does  he  come  for  speech  and  music?     Does  he 

come  for  gay  parade, 
And  to  see  a  moving  pageant  in  its  festal  hues 

arrayed? 
No,  a  gray  and  rain-washed  farmhouse,   hid 

beside  a  country  lane 
Is  the  goal  of  all  his  hurry,  when  our  hero 

comes  to  Maine. 
And  past  spectacle  and  pageant,  bannered  street 

and  brave  array 
He  is  rushing,  soul  on  fire,  toward  a  dearer 

scene  than  they; 


40  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  the  hand  that  gives  him  welcome  may  be 

calloused,  may  be  brown, 
But  the  fervor  of  its  greeting  can't  be  matched 

back  there  in  town. 
'Tis  a  plain  old  dad  in  drillin'  who  will  clasp 

his  hand;    and  then 
He  will  shout,  "  Lord,  ain't  we  tickled !     God 

bless  ye,  how've  ye  be'n  ? 
Why,  massy  me,  ye  rascal,  how  like  fury  ye 

have  growed! 
If  I'd  met  ye  in  the  village,  swan,  I  wouldn't 

scursely  knowed, 
Your  face  behind  them  whiskers ;  'fore  ye  know 

it  boys  are  men ! 
Hey,    mother,    here's   your   youngster!     Land 

o'  Goshen,  how've  ye  be'n  ?  " 

And  if,  you  home  returning  son, 
Some  tithe  of  honor  you  have  won, 
Sweeter  than  telling  the  world  of  men 
Is  telling  the  old  folks  "  how  you've  be'n." 

Though  of  wealth  and  brains  and  beauty,  festal 

Maine  has  summoned  all 
And  the  banquet  gleams   in   splendor   in   the 

city's  spacious  hall, 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  41 

Does  he  envy  them  the  viands  spread  beneath 

their  flag-wrapt  dome? 
No,  never,  as  he  sits  there  at  the  old  folks' 

board  back  home. 
There  are  all  the  dear  old  good  things  made 

by  mother's  loving  hands, 
— Such  things,  so  he  discovers,  only  mother 

understands; 
There's  the  old  and  treasured  china,  figured 

blue  with  gilded  rim, 
Saved    to    honor    great    occasions — now    the 

whole  is  spread  for  him, 

And  the  mother's  eyes  are  wistful;    she's    as 
sailed  by  constant  doubt 
Lest,  spite  of  all  his  fearful  raids,  he  somehow 

"  won't  make  out." 
But,  though  the  wanderer  strives  to  eat,  his 

heart  keeps  coming  up, 
And  tears  roll  out  of  brimming  eyes  he  lowers 

o'er  his  cup, 
And  in  the  throat  there  swells  a  lump,   not 

grief, — and  yet  akin — 

To  see  the  old  folks  bowed  so  low,  so  snowy- 
haired  and  thin. 
And  yet  their  happy  faces  glow,  until  they're 

young  again, 
And  dad  lights  up  his  old  crook  pipe  and  says, 

"  Now  how've  ye  be'n  ? 


42  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Set  down  and  tell  us  how  ye've  fared  and  tell 

us  how  ye've  done, 
You've  sent  us  letters  right  along,  but  them 

don't  talk  it,  son. 
A  minit  with  ye,  face  to  face,  beats  hours  with 

a  pen; 
God  bless  ye,  bub !     Ye're  welcome  back !  Now 

tell  us  how've  ye  be'n?" 

Ah,  happy  he  who  brings  success 
Back  here  to  Maine  to  cheer  and  bless 
The  folks  who  ask  in  tenderness, 
— Taking  you  into  their  arms  again, 
"God  bless  ye,  dearie,  how've  ye  be'n?" 


UNCLE  TASCUS  AND  THE  DEED 

Uncle  Peter  Tascus  Runnels  has  been  feeble 

some  of  late; 
He  has  allus  been  a  worker  and  he  sartinly  did 

hate 
To  confess  he  couldn't  tussle  with  the  spryest 

any  more, 
— That  he  wasn't  fit  for  nothin'  but  to  fub 

around  an'  chore. 
When  he  climbed  the  stable  scaffold  t'other  day 

he  had  a  spell, 


43 


—Kind   o'   heart-disease  or   somethin' — an'   I 

heard  he  like  to  fell. 
Guess  the  prospect  sort  o'  scared  him;   so,  that 

ev'nin'  after  tea, 

— After  he  had  smoked  a  pipeful — pretty  sol 
emn,  then  says  he, 
"  Reckin,  son,  ye've  noticed  lately  that  your 

dad  is  gittin'  old, 
An'  your  marm  is  nigh  as  feeble; — much  as 

ever  she  can  scold !  " 
Uncle  Tascus  said  so  grinnin';    for  the  folks 

around  here  know 
That  no  better-natured  woman  ever  lived  than 

old  Aunt  Jo. 
"  Now,  my  son,"  said  Uncle  Tascus,  "  you've 

been  good  to  me  an'  marm, 
An'  you  know  we  allus  told  ye,  ye  was  sure  to 

have  the  farm. 
An'   we   like  your   wife   Lucindy;     there  has 

never  been  no  touse 
As  is  gen'ly  apt  to  happen  with  two  famblys  in 

the  house. 
I  can't  manage  as  I  used  to;    mother's  gittin' 

pretty  slim, 
An'  to  hold  our  prop'ty  longer  is  a  whim,  bub, 

jest  a  whim ! 
So  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'm  plannin',  an'  I  know 

that  marm  agrees, 


44  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

We'll  sign  off  an'  make  it  over;   then  we'll  sort 

o'  take  our  ease. 
So,  hitch  up  to-morrer  mornin' — drive  us  down 

to  Lawyer  True, 
Me  an'  marm  will  sign  the  papers,  an'  we'll 

deed  the  place  to  you." 

Lawyer  True  looked  kind  o'   doubtful  when 

they  told  him  what  was  on. 
"  I'll  admit,"  said  he,   "  that  no  one's  got  a 

better  boy  than  John. 
Now  don't  think  I'm  interferin'  or  am  prophe- 

syin'  harm, 
When  I  warn  ye  not  to  do  it;    don't  ye  deed 

away  your  farm. 
I  have  seen  so  many  cases — heard  'em  tried 

most  ev'ry  term — 
Where  a  deed  has  busted  fam'lies,  that,  I  swow, 

it  makes  me  squirm 
If  I'm  asked  to  write  a  transfer  to  a  relative 

or  son. 
Tascus,   please  excuse  my  meddlin',   but — ye 

hold  it  till  ye're  done." 

Uncle  Tascus,  though,  insisted.     He  was  allus 

rather  sot. 
He  allowed  he'd  show  the  neighbors  jest  the 

kind  of  son  he'd  got. 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  45 

— Said  he'd  show   'em  how  a  Runnels  allus 

stuck  by  kith  an'  kin, 
So  the  lawyer  drew  the  papers — an'  they  started 

home  agin, 
Uncle  Tascus  held  the  webbin's — he  has  allus 

driv'  the  hoss — 
John  he  chuckled  kind  o'  nervous.     Then  said 

he,  "  Wai,  pa,  I'm  boss ! 
Now  ye've  never  got  to  worry — I'm  the  one  to 

take  the  lead, 
Things  were  gettin'  kind  o'  logy — guess  I'll 

have  to  put  on  speed. 
An'  as  now  I  head  the  fam'ly,  an'  you're  sort 

of  on  the  shelf, 
Guess    I'll " — John    he    took    the    webbin's — 

"  guess  I'd  better  drive,  myself." 

Wai,   s'r,   Uncle  Tascus  pondered,   pondered, 

pondered  all  that  day. 
An'    that    evenin'    still    was    pond'rin',    as    he 

rocked  an'  smoked  away. 
John  he  set  clus'  up  t'  table,  underneath  the 

hangin'  lamp, 
Ciph'rin'  out  that  legal  paper  with  its  seal  an' 

rev'nue  stamp. 
Then  he  folded  it  an'  chuckled.     "  That's  all 

right  an'  tight,"  he  said, 


46  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  Lawyers  tie  things  tighter'n  Jehu.     Dad,  ye'd 

better  go  to  bed. 
You  an'  marm  are  gettin'  feeble;   mustn't  have 

ye  up  so  late! 
I'm  the  boss—  '  John  sort  o'  te-heed,  "  so  I'll 

have  to  keep  ye  straight. 
'Sides,  I'll  need  ye  bright  an'  early.     In  the 

mornin'  hitch  the  mare, 
Take  that  paper  down  t'  court-house.     Have  it 

put  on  record  there." 

Uncle  Tascus  took  the  writin',  pulled  his  specs 

down  on  his  nose, 
Read  it  over  very  careful.     Then  says  he,  "  My 

son,  I  s'pose 
You  are  jest  as  good's  they  make  'em;   I  hain't 

got  no  fault  to  find, 
You  are  thrifty,  smart  an'  stiddy;   rather  bluff, 

but  allus  kind, 
An'  I  guess  you'd  prob'ly  use  us  jest  as  well's 

ye  really  knew, 
But  I  hain't  so  awful  sartin  that  I'm  done  an' 

out  an'  through ! 
— Tell  ye,   son,   I've  been  a-thinkin'  since  ye 

took  an'  driv'  that  hoss, 
— Since  ye  sort  o'  throwed  your  shoulders  an' 

allowed  that  you  was  boss! 


OUR  HOME  FOLKS  47 

Hate  to  act  so  whiffle-minded,  but  my  father 

used  to  say, 
'  Men  would  sometimes  change  opinions;  mules 

would  stick  the  same  old  way.' ' 
Uncle  Tascus  tore  the  paper  twice  acrost,  then 

calmly  threw 
On  the  fire  the  shriv'lin'  pieces.     Poof!    They 

vanished  up  the  flue. 
'  There,  bub,  run  to  bed,"  said  Tascus,  with 

his  sweet,  old-fashioned  smile. 
'  These  old  hands  are  sort  of  shaky,  but  I  guess 

I'll  drive  a  while." 


SONGS  OF   THE   SEA  AND 
SHORE 

TALE  OF  A  SHAG-EYED  SHARK 

The  mackerel  bit  as  they  crowded  an'  fit  to 

grab  at  our  gangin'  bait, 
We  were  flappin'  'em  in  till  the  'midship  bin 

held  clus'  on  a  thousand  weight; 
When  all  of  a  sudden  they  shet  right  down  an' 

never  a  one  would  bite, 
An'  the  Old  Man  swore  an'  he  r'ared  an'  tore 

till  the  mains'l  nigh  turned  white, 
He'd  pass  as  the  heftiest  swearin'  man  that 

ever  I  heard  at  sea, 
An'  that  is  allowin'  a  powerful  lot,  as  sartinly 

you  will  agree. 
Whenever  he  cursed  his  arm  shot  up  an'  his 

fingers  they  wiggled  about, 
Till  they  seemed  to  us  like  a  windmill's  fans 

a-pumpin'  the  cuss-words  out. 
He  swore  that  day  by  the  fodder  hay  of  the 

Great  Jeehookibus  whale, 
By  the  Big  Skedunk,  an'  he  bit  a  hunk  from 

the  edge  of  an  iron  pail, 
For  he  knowed  the  reason  the  fish  had  dodged, 

an'  he  swore  us  stiff  an'  stark 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   49 

As  he  durned  the  eyes  an'  liver  an'  lights  of  a 

shag-eyed,  skulkin'  shark. 
Then  we  baited  a  line  all  good  an'  fine  an'  slung 

'er  over  the  side, 
An'  the  shark  took  holt  with  a  dretful  jolt,  an' 

he  yanked  an'  chanked  an'  tried 
To  jerk  it  out,  but  we  held  him  stout  so  he 

couldn't  duck  nor  swim, 
An'  we  h'isted  him  over — that  old  sea-rover — 

we'd  business  there  with  him. 

A-yoopin'  for  air  he  laid  on  deck,  an'  the  skip 
per  he  says,  says  he : 
"  You're  the  wust,  dog-gondest,  mis'able  hog 

that  swims  the  whole  durn  sea. 
'Mongst  gents  as  is  gents  it's  a  standin'  rule  to 

leave  each  gent  his  own — • 
If  ye  note  as  ye  pass  he's  havin'  a  cinch,  stand 

off  an'  leave  him  alone. 
But  you've  slobbered  along  where  you  don't 

belong,  an'  you've  gone  an'  spiled  the  thing, 
An'   now,   by    the    pink-tailed   Wah-hoo-fish, 

you'll  take  your  dose,  by  jing!  " 
So,  actin'  by  orders,  the  cook  fetched  up  our 

biggest  knife  on  board, 
An'  he  ripped  that  shark  in  his  'midship  bulge; 

then  the  Old  Man  he  explored. 


50  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An'  after  a  while,  with  a  nasty  smile,  he  giv'  a 

yank  an'  twist, 
"  Hurroo!  "  yells  he,  an'  then  we  see  the  liver 

clinched  in  his  fist. 
Still  actin'  by  orders,  the  cook  fetched  out  his 

needle  an'  biggest  twine — 
With  a  herrin'-bone  stitch  sewed  up  that  shark, 

all  right  an'  tight  an'  fine. 
We  throwed  him  back  with  a  mighty  smack, 

an'  the  look  as  he  swum  away 
Was  the  most  reproachfulest  kind  of  a  look 

I've  seen  for  many  a  day. 
An'  the  liver  was  throwed  in  the  scuttle-butt, 

to  keep  it  all  fresh  an'  cool, 
Then  we  up  with  our  sheet  an'  off  we  beat, 

a-chasin'  that  mackerel  school. 

We  sailed  all  day  in  a  criss-cross  way,  but  the 

school  it  skipped  an'  skived, 
It  dodged  an'  ducked,  an'  backed  an'  bucked, 

an'  scooted  an'  swum  an'  dived. 
An*  we  couldn't  catch  'em,  the  best  we'd  do — 

an'  oh,  how  the  Old  Man  swore! 
He  went  an'  he  gargled  his  throat  in  ile,  'twas 

peeled  so  raw  an'  sore. 
But  at  last,  'way  off  at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  we 

suddenly  chanced  to  spy 


A  tall  back-fin  come  fannin'  in,  ag'inst  the  sun 
set  sky. 

An'  the  sea  ahead  of  it  shivered  an'  gleamed 
with  a  shiftin'  an'  silvery  hue, 

With  here  a  splash  an'  there  a  dash,  an'  a  rip 
ple  shootin'  through. 

An'  the  Old  Man  jumped  six  feet  from  deck; 
he  hollered  an'  says,  says  he : 

"  Here  comes  the  biggest  mackerel  school  since 
the  Lord  set  off  the  sea ! 

An'  right  behind,  if  I  hain't  blind,  by  the  prong- 
jawed  dog-fish's  bark, 

Is  a  finnin'  that  mis'able  hog  of  the  sea,  that 
liverless,  shag-eyed  shark !  " 

But  we  out  with  our  bait  an'  down  with  our 

hooks,  an'  we  fished  an'  fished  an'  fished, 
While  'round  in  a  circle,  a-cuttin'  the  sea,  that 

back-fin  whished  an'  slished; 
An'  we  noticed  at  last  he  was  herdln'  the  school 

an'  drivin'  'em  on  our  bait, 
An'  they  bit  an'  they  bit  an'  we  pulled  'em  in  at 

a  reg'lar  wholesale  rate. 
We  pulled  'em  in  till  the  S'airey  Ann  was  wal- 

lerin'  with  her  load, 
An'  we  stopped  at  last  'cause  there  wa'n't  no 

room  for  the  mackerel  to  be  stowed. 


52  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Then  up  came  a-finnin'  that  liverless  shark,  an' 

he  showed  his  stitched-up  side, 
An'  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  such  a  look  that 

the  Old  Man  fairly  cried. 
We  rigged  a  tackle  an'  lowered  a  noose  an' 

the  shark  stuck  up  his  neck, 
Then  long  an'  slow,  with  a  heave  yo-ho,  we 

h'isted  him  up  on  deck. 
The  skipper  he  blubbered  an'  grabbed  a  fin  an' 

gave  it  a  hearty  shake; 
Says  he,  "  Old  man,  don't  lay  it  up  an'  we'll 

have  a  drop  to  take." 
An',  actin'  by  orders,  the  cook  fetched  up  our 

kag  of  good  old  rum; 
The  shark  he  had  his  drink  poured  first,  an'  all 

of  us  then  took  some. 
Still  actin'  by  orders,  the  cook  he  took  an'  he 

picked  them  stitches  out, 
An'   we  all   turned  to,   an'  we  lent   a  hand; 

though  of  course  we  had  some  doubt 
As  to  how  he'd  worn  it  an'  how  'twas  hitched, 

an'  whuther  'twas  tight  or  slack, 
But  as  best  we  could — as  we  understood — we 

put  that  liver  back. 
Then  we  sewed  him  up,  an'  we  shook  his  fin 

an'  we  giv'  him  another  drink, 
We  h'isted  him  over  the  rail  ag'in  an'  he  giv' 

us  a  partin'  wink. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE    53 

Then  he  swum  away,  an'  I  dast  to  say,  although 
he  was  rather  sore, 

He  felt  that  he'd  started  the  trouble  first,  an' 
we'd  done  our  best  an'  more. 

'Cause  a  dozen  times  'fore  the  season  closed 
an'  the  mackerel  skipped  to  sea, 

He  herded  a  school  an'  drove  'em  in,  as  gen 
tlemanlike  as  could  be. 

We'd  toss  him  a  drink,  an'  he'd  tip  a  wink,  as 
sociable  as  ye  please, 

No  kinder  nor  better-mannered  shark  has  ever 
swum  the  seas. 


Now,  the  moral  is,  if  you  cut  a  friend  before 

that  you  know  he's  friend, 
An'  after  he's  shown  it,  ye  do  your  best  his 

feelin's  to  nicely  mend, 
He'll  meet  ye  square,  an'  he'll  call  you  quits, 

providin'  he's  got  a  spark 
Of  proper  feelin' — at  least  our  crew  can  vouch 

this  for  a  shark. 


54  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

THE   GREAT  JEEHOOKIBUS   WHALE 

May  health  and  heartiness  never  fail 

My  friend  the  Whale — my  friend  the  Whale! 

There  are  days  when  the  dog-fish  are  gnawin' 

the  bait, 

And  the  mud-eels  are  saggin'  the  trawl; 
When  the  brim  and  the  monk-fish  and  pucker- 
mouthed  skate 

Are  the  yield  from  a  three-mile  haul ; 
— When  the  dory-bow  ducks  with  the  weight 

that  it  lugs 

Of  the  riffraff  and  sculch  of  the  sea, 
And  sculpins   come  gogglin'   with   wide-open 

mugs, 
And  grinnin'  jocosely  at  me. 

It's  h'ist  and  lug,  and  pull  and  tug — 
Bow-pulley  chuckerin' — chugity-chug ! 
And  all  that  ye're  gittin'  won't  pay  for  the 

weight 

Of  powder  to  blow  'em  to  Beelzebub's 
strait. 

Then's  the  chance  to  be  grum  if  ye're  taken 

that  style 
And  are  sort  of  inclined  to  the  blues ; 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   55 

When  luck  is  ag'in  ye  'tis  whimper  or  smile, 

Whichever's  your  notion  to  choose. 
Now  I — I  am  sort  of  inclined  to  the  grins, 

So,  after  a  loaf  on  the  rail, 
I  whistle  him  up,  my  old  friend  of  the  fins — 
The  jolly  Jeehookibus  Whale! 

— The  great  Jeehookibus,  fan-fluke  whale, 
A  genial  chap  with  a  swivel  tail; 
Ready  for  larks  and  primed  for  pranks, 
— His  jokes   are  the  life  of  the   whole 
Grand  Banks. 

I've  knowed  him  sence  summer  of  'Seventy- 
four, 

When  I  "chanced"  on  a  hand-liner  trip; 
I  was  out  in  my  dory  one  day  and  I  wore 

Oiled  petticuts  strapped  to  my  hip. 
I  was  thinkin'  and  smokin'  and  fishin'  away, 

As  quiet  as  quiet  could  be, 
When  all  of  a  whew  there  was  dickens  to  pay 

In  the  neighborhood  handy  to  me. 
With  a  whoosh  like  a  rocket  I  shot  in  the  air, 

And  it  seemed  like  'twas  blowin'  a  gale; 
As  I  h'isted  sky-hootin'  I  looked,  sor,  and  there 

Was  the  jolly  Jeehookibus  Whale. 

The  great  Jeehookibus,  fan-fluke  whale 
Was  under  me,  swishin'  his  swivel  tail. 


56  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  stood  on  his  head  with  his  tail  stuck 

up, 
And  the  game  he  was  playin'  was  ball-and- 

cup. 

I  dropped,  but  he  caught  me  and  filliped  me 

quick 

And  juggled  me  neat  as  could  be; 
'Twas   as   pretty   and   clever   a   sleight-of-tail 

trick 

As  ever  ye  saw  on  the  sea. 
At  first  I  was  skittish,  as  you  can  see  why, 

When  I  found  myself  up  there  on  air, 
But  as  soon  as  I  noticed  the  quirk  in  his  eye 

I  was  over  my  bit  of  a  scare. 
'Twas  a  humorous  look  he  was  throwin'  to  me 

As  there  I  continnered  to  sail, 
While  under  me,  finnin'  and  grinnin'  in  glee, 
Was  the  jolly  Jeehookibus  Whale. 

The  great  Jeehookibus,  fan-fluke  whale 
He  fanned  and  fanned  with  his  big,  broad 

tail, 

Till  my  petticuts  filled  and  I  floated  there, 
Like  a  thistle-balloon  on  the  summer  air. 

'Twas  the  slickest  performance,  our  doryman 

swore, 
That  ever  was  seen  on  the  Banks- 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE    57 

He  lowered  me  back  in  my  dory  once  more 

And  I  giv'  him  my  heartiest  thanks. 
And  I  reckon  he  liked  me  and  thought  I  was 

game, 

Because  I  wa'n't  yowlin'  in  fear; 
For  over  and  over  he's  done  jest  the  same, 

This  many  and  many  a  year. 
When   dog-fish   are   gnawin'    and   other  men 

swear 

As  they  jerk  at  the  sculch-loaded  trawl, 
I  know  I  have  some  one  to  cuff  away  care, 

If  only  I  whistle  a  call. 
Then  up  from  his  bed  on  the  dulses  he  spins, 

And  I  boost  myself  over  the  rail 
For  a  sail  on  the  tail  of  my  friend  of  the  fins — 
The  jolly  Jeehookibus  Whale. 
— The  great  Jeehookibus,  fan-fluke  whale, 
A  jovial  chap  with  a  swivel  tail; 
Ready  for  larks  and  primed  for  pranks, 
He   drives   away   blues   from   the   whole 
Grand  Banks. 

May  health  and  heartiness  never  fail 

My  friend  the  Whale — my  friend  the  Whale! 


58  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


"  AS  BESEEMETH  MEN  " 

We  heard  her  a  mile  to  west'ard — the  liner  that 
cut  us  through — 

As  crushing  the  fog  at  a  twenty- jog  she  drove 
with  her  double  screw. 

We  heard  her  a  mile  to  west'ard  as  she  bel 
lowed  to  clear  her  path, 

The  grum,  grim  grunt  of  her  whistle,  a  levia 
than's  growl  of  wrath. 

We  could  tell  she  was  aimed  to  smash  us,  so 
we  clashed  at  our  little  bell, 

But  the  sound  was  shredded  by  screaming  wind 
and  we  simply  rung  our  knell. 

And  the  feeble  breath,  that  screamed  at  Death 
through  our  horn,  was  beaten  back, 

And  we  knew  that  doom  rode  up  the  sea  to 
ward  the  shell  of  our  tossing  smack. 

Then  out  of  the  fog  she  thundered,  the  liner, 

smashing  to  east ; 
Her  green  and  her  red  glared  overhead  and  her 

bows  were  spouting  yeast. 
The   eyes   of  her   reddened   hawse-holes,    her 

dripping  and  towering  flanks, 
Flashed  with  no  gleam  of  mercy  for  her  quarry 

on  the  Banks. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE    59 

She  scornfully  spurned  us  under,  the  while  her 

whistle  brayed, 
Nor  heeded  the  crash  of  our  little  craft  nor  the 

feeble  chirp  we  made; 
And  as  down  we  swept,  her  folk  that  slept — 

they  slumbered  serenely  still, 
And  even  the  lookout  on  the  bridge  scarce  felt 

the  thud  and  thrill. 
But  they  jangled  her  bells  and  halted;  and  the 

sullen  sea  they  swept 
With  the  goggling  gleam  of  the  searchlight's 

beam.     A  dozen  of  us  had  crept 
On  the  mass  of  the  tangled  wreckage  she  con 
temptuously  had  tossed 
A  mile  astern  in  the  chop  and  churn.     The 

others  were  drowned — were  lost! 
There  was  never  a  whine  nor  whimper,  only 

some  muttered  groans, 
As  the  ocean  buffeted  martyrs  who  clung  there 

with  shattered  bones, 
And  those  whose  grip  was  broken  as  the  surge 

reeled  creaming  high, 
Went  out  from  the  ken  of  the  searchlight  with 

a  hoarse  but  brave  "  Good-by." 
In  the  great  white  light  no  sign  of  fright  stole 

wrinkling  o'er  a  face, 
For  the  men  of  the  Banks  know  fiow  to  die 

when  Davy  trumps  their  ace. 


60  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  better  than  simply  dying — they  can  cheer 
fully,  bravely  give 
Life,  heart,  and  head  in  a  comrade's  stead  if 

they  deem  that  he  ought  to  live. 
For  there  in  the  searchlight's  glory,  the  night 

that  they  cut  us  down, 
Old  Injun  Joe  gave  up  his  cask  that  another 

might  not  drown. 
Old  Joe  was  a  lone  world-rover,  the  other  had 

babes  on  land; 
No  word  was  said,  but  Joe  went  down  with  a 

wave  of  his  dripping  hand. 
And  ere  the  lifeboats  reached  us  and  gathered 

our  scattered  few, 
We  saw  that  night  what  so  long  we'd  known, 

that  a  Glo'ster  fishing  crew, 
Rude  and  rough  and  grimed  and  gruff,  had 

calmly  shown  again 
That  on  sea  or  sod  they  can  meet  their  God  in 

the  way  that  beseemeth  men! 

Then  over  her  sullen  bulwarks,  as  she  stamped 
and  chafed  and  rolled, 

From  the  night  and  wreck  to  her  dazzling  deck 
climbed  we — and  our  tale  was  told. 

And  the  dainty  folk  from  her  staterooms  lis 
tened  and  gazed  and  said, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   61 

As  they  tiptoed  across  our  dripping  trail, 
"  How  awful !  " — then  went  to  bed. 

And  our  half-score  left,  of  all  bereft — com 
rades  and  gear  and  smack — 

Sat  hoping  our  wreck  would  tell  no  tales  till 
our  scattered  few  came  back. 

And  haughtily  unrepentant,  the  liner,  insolent 
still, 

Through  foam  and  spume  and  fog  and  gloom 
drove  on  to  wreak  her  will. 

Were  only  her  zeal  less  eager,  her  lust  for  her 
prey  less  keen, 

She  must  have  sensed  that  horrid  chill  that 
shuddered  from  One  Unseen. 

But  onward  she  plunged  unheeding  that  there 
in  the  vast,  black  sea, 

As  grim  as  Fate  there  lay  in  wait  One  mightier 
than  she. 

A  ghost  in  white  before  her — the  fog  its  som 
bre  pall — 

And  she  crushed  herself  like  dead-ripe  fruit 
against  the  iceberg's  wall. 

Then  up  from  her  perfumed  cabins  came  pour 
ing  the  rich  and  proud, 

And  I — poor  Glo'ster  fisher — I  blushed  for 
that  maddened  crowd. 


62  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

There    were    men    in    silken    night-gear    who 

fought  frail  women  back, 
There    were    pampered    fools    who,    fierce    as 

ghouls,  left  murder  in  their  track; 
There    were    shrieking    men    whose    jeweled 

hands  dragged  children  from  a  boat 
And  rode  away  in  the  babies'  stead  when  the 

life-craft  went  afloat. 
'Tis  not  for  boast  that  I  tell  the  rest :    we're 

not  of  the  boasting  kind — 
We  folks  that  sail  from  Glo'ster  town ;  but  you 

know  you'll  sometimes  find 
A  man  who  sneers  at  a  tattered  coat  or  a  sun 
burned  fist  or  face, 
And   believes   that   only   blood   or   purse   can 

honor  the  human  race. 
Forlorn  and  few,  our  battered  crew  had  stared 

at  Death  that  night; 
Perhaps  we'd  known  him  so  long  and  well  his 

mien  did  not  affright. 
Perhaps  we  hide  here  in  our  hearts,  below  the 

rags  and  tan, 
The  honest   stuff,   unplaned   and  rough,   that 

really  makes  the  man. 
For  we  bared  our  arms  and  we  stormed  the 

press — of  safety  took  no  care; 
We  dragged  those  wretches  from  the  boats — 

then  placed  the  women  there. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   63 

No  time  had  we  for  the  courtly  "  Please!  "    If 

a  poltroon  answered  "  No," 
We  gave  him  the  thing  that  a  man  reserves  for 

the  coward's  case — a  blow. 

It  isn't  a  boast,  I  say  again;   but  we  stayed  till 

all  had  passed, 
Then  the  ragged  coats  of  those  Glo'ster  men 

went  over  her  lee  rail  last. 
And  three  of  the  few  of  our  scattered  crew, 

who  had  twice  dared  Fate  that  night, 
Went  down  in  the  rush  of  the  whirlpool's  tow 

when  the  liner  swooped  from  sight. 
We  ask  no  praise,  we  seek  no  heights  above 

our  chosen  place, 
But    the  men  of  the  Banks  know  how  to  die 

when  Davy  trumps  their  ace. 
And  if  need  arise  for  a  sacrifice  we've  shown, 

and  we'll  show  again, 
That  on  sea  or  sod  we  can  meet  our  God  in 

the  way  that  beseemeth  men. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  WHITE  REVIEW 

The    mandate   that    summons    them    nobody 
knows, 

Nor  whose  is  the  mystical  word 
That  bids  the  vast  breast  of  the  ocean  unclose, 

When  the  depths  are  so  eerily  stirred. 


64  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

There  are  omens  of  ocean  and  portents  of  sky 

That  the  eyes  of  the  banksman  may  read; 
The  wind  tells  its  menace  by  moan  or  a  sigh 

To  any  one  giving  it  heed. 
Yet,  fathom  the  whorl  of  a  cloud  though  he 
may — 

Interpret  the  purr  of  the  sea — 
No  weatherwise  fisherman  truly  may  say 

When  the  Drift  of  the  Drowned  shall  be. 

This  alone  we  know: 
Ere  days  of  the  autumn  bloiv, 
Up  from  the  swaying  ocean  deeps  appears  the 

grisly  show. 

And  woe  to  the  fated  crew 
Who  behold  it  passing  through — 
Who  gaze  on  the  ghosts  of  the  Gloucester  fleets 
on  the  Nig.ht  of  the  White  Review. 

Whence  issue  these  fleets  for  their  grim  ren 
dezvous 

And  their  hideous  cruise,  who  may  know? 
Yet  they  traverse  the  Banks  ere  the  winter 

storms  brew, 

Their  pennon  the  banner  of  woe. 
We  know  that  from  Quero  far  west  to  the 

Shoals. 
The  prodigal  bottom  is  spread 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE    65 

With  bones  and  with  timbers — "  Went  down 

with  all  souls," 

Tells  the  story  of  Gloucester's  dead. 
And  up  with  those  souls  come  those  vessels 

again 

On  that  mystical  eve  in  the  fall; 
Then  out  of  the  night  to  the  terror  of  men 
They  sail  with  the  fog  for  a  pall. 

And  down  the  swimming  deep, 
As  the  fishers  lie  asleep, 
These  craft  loom  out  of  the  great,  black  night, 

and  past  the  living  sweep. 
And  ivoe  to  that  fated  crew 
Who  behold  them  passing  through — 
Who  gaze  on  the  ghosts  of  the  Gloucester  fleets 
on  the  Night  of  the  White  Review. 

Now  here  and  now  yonder  some  helmsman 

sings  hail 

As  the  awful  procession  stalks  past, 
And  the  horrified  crew  tumbles  up  to  the  rail 

To  gaze  on  the  marvel,  aghast. 
And  then  through  that  night,  when  the  fishers 

ride  near, 

There's  a  hail  and  a  husky  halloo : 
"  Did  you  see  " — and  the  voice  has  a  quiver  of 
fear — 


66  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  Did   you    see   the   White   Banksmen    sail 

through  ?  " 
There  are  those  who  may  see  them — and  those 

who  may  not, 

Though  they  peer  to  the  depths  of  the  night; 
Ah,  ye  who  behold  them,  alas  for  the  lot 
That  grants  you  such  ominous  sight. 

It  augurs  death  and  dole — 
That  the  Gloucester  bells  will  toll — 
Means  another  stone  on  Windmill  Hill:  "  Went 

down  with  every  soul." 
For  it's  woe  to  that  fated  crew 
Who  behold  them  passing  through — 
Who  gaze  on  the  ghosts  of  the  Gloucester  fleets 
on  the  Night  of  the  White  Review. 

'Tis   a   mournful   monition   from   those   gone 
before — 

That  phantom  procession  of  Fate; 
But  'tis  only  the  craven  that  flees  to  the  shore, 

For  the  fisher  must  work  and  must  wait — 
Must  wait  for  the  storm  that  shall  carry  him 
down, 

Must  work  with  his  dory  and  trawl; 
There  are  women  and  babies  in  Gloucester  town 

Who  are  hungry.     So  God  for  us  all ! 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   67 

Though  mystic  and  silent  and  pallid  and  weird 
Those  ominous  Banksmen  may  roam, 

Though  Death  trails  above  them,  where'er  they 

are  steered, 
We'll  work  for  the  babies  at  home. 

The  Banks  will  claim  their  toll, 
And  Fate  makes  up  the  roll 
Of  those  with  the  humble  epitaph:     "  Went 

dozvn  with  every  soul." 
And  it's  woe  to  that  fated  crew 
Who  behold  them  passing  through — 
Who  gaze  on  the  ghosts  of  the  Gloucester  fleets 
on  the  Night  of  the  White  Review. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ORASMUS  NUTE 

There  once  was  a  Quaker,  Orasmus  Nute, 
With  a  physog  as  stiff  as  a  cowhide  boot, 
And  he  skippered  a  ship  from  Georgetown, 

Maine, 

In  the  'way-back  days  of  the  pirates'  reign. 
And  the  story  I  tell  it  has  to  do 
With  Orasmus  Nute  and  a  black  flag  crew; 
The  tale  of  the  upright  course  he  went 
In  the  face  of  a  certain  predicament. 
For  Orasmus  Nute  was  a  godly  man 


68  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


And  he  faithfully  followed  the  Quaker  plan 
Of  love  for  all  and  a  peaceful  life 
And  a  horror  of  warfare  and  bloody  strife. 
While  above  the  honors  of  seas  and  fleets 
He  prized  his  place  on  "  the  facing  seats." 
Ah,  Orasmus  Nute, 
Orasmus  Nute, 
He  never  disgraced  his  plain  drab  suit. 

Now  often  he  sailed  for  spice  and  teas 
'Way  off  some  place  through  the  Barbary  seas ; 
And  once  for  a  venture  his  good  ship  bore 
Some  unhung  grindstones,  a  score  or  more. 
Now,  never  in  all  of  his  trips  till  then 
Had  he  spoken  those  godless  pirate  men. 
But  it  chanced  one  day  near  a  foreign  shore 
The  sail  of  a  strange  craft  toward  him  bore; 
And  as  soon  as  the  rig  was  clearly  seen 
The  mate  allowed  'twas  a  black  lateen. 
Now  a  black  lateen,  as  all  men  knew, 
Was  the  badge  of  a  bold,  bad  pirate  crew. 
So  the  mate  he  crammed  to  its  rusty  neck 
A  grim  "  Long  Tom  "  on  the  quarter  deck, 
Then  leaned  on  its  muzzle  a  bit  to  pray 
And  waited  to  hear  what  the  skipper  would  say. 
For  Orasmus  Nute, 
Orasmus  Nute 
Had  stepped  below  for  to  change  his  suit. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   69 

He  asked  as  he  came  on  deck  again, 

"  Does  thee  really  think  those  are  pirate  men?  " 

"  Yea,  verily,"  answered  the  Quaker  mate, 

"  And  they  come  at  a  most  unseemly  gait." 

Orasmus  Nute  looked  over  the  rail 

At  the  bulging  sweep  of  the  huge  black  sail; 

Said  he,  "  We  are  keeping  our  own  straight 

path, 

And  I'm  sorry  to  harm  those  men  of  wrath 
Yet,  brother,  perchance  we  are  justified 
In  letting  Thomas  rebuke  their  pride. 
We'll  simply  give  'em  a  dash  of  fright. 
So  be  sure,  my  friend,  thee  have  aimed  just 

right." 

He  squinted  his  eye  along  the  rust, 
"  Now  shoot,"  said  he,  "  if  thee  thinks  thee 

must." 

Ker-boomo!   the  old  Long  Thomas  roared, 
And  the  big  lateen  flopped  overboard. 
And  Orasmus  Nute, 
Orasmus  Nute, 
Seemed  puzzled  to  find  that  he  could  shoot. 

"  Now  what  are  those  sinful  men  about?  " 
He  asked,  as  he  heard  a  hoarse,  long  shout. 
And  the  Quaker  mate  he  answered,  "  Lo! 
They've  out  with  their  oars,   and  here   they 
row!" 


70  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  Now,  what  in  the  name  of  William  Penn," 
Cried  Orasmus  Nute,  "  can  ail  those  men? 
Perchance  they  are  after  our  load  of  stones, 
Will  thee  roll  them  up  here,  Brother  Jones  ? 
We'll  save  them  all  of  the  work  we  can — 
As  a  Quaker  should  for  his  fellow  man." 
So  as  soon  as  the  fierce,  black  pirate  drew 
Up  'longside,  that  Quaker  crew 
Rolled  those  grindstones  down  pell-mell, 
And  every  stone  smashed  through  the  shell 
Of  the  pirate  zebec,  and  down  it  went, 
And  all  of  the  rascals  to  doom  were  sent, 
While  Orasmus  Nute  leaned  over  the  side, 
"  No  thanks,  thee  'rt  welcome,  my  friends,"  he 

cried. 

It  chanced  one  wretch  from  the  sunken  craft 
Made  a  clutch  at  a  rope  that  was  trailing  aft, 
And  up  he  was  swarming  with  frantic  hope, 
When  Orasmus  cried,  "  Does  thee  want  that 

rope?" 

So  he  cut  it  away  with  one  swift  hack 
With  a  smile  for  the  pirate  as  he  dropped  back. 
And  the  Quaker  skipper  surveyed  the  sea 
"  God  loveth  the  generous  man,"  quoth  he. 
Then  Orasmus  Nute, 
Orasmus  Nute 
Went  down  and  resumed  his  Quaker  suit. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   71 

THE  DORYMAN'S  S'ONG 

Dory  here  an'  Dora  there, 
They  keep  a  man  a-guessin'; 

An'  here's  a  prayer  for  a  full-bin  fare, 
— Then  home  for  the  parson's  blessin'! 

Ruddy  an'  round  as  the  skipper's  phiz,  out  of 

the  sea  he  rolls, 
— The  fisherman's  sun,  an'  the  day's  begun  for 

the  men  on  the  Grand  Bank  shoals. 
With  pipe  alight  an'  snack  stowed  tight  under 

a  bulgin'  vest, 
I'll  over  with  dory  an'  in  with  the  trawls  for 

the  wind  is  fair  sou'  west. 
— The  wind  is  fair  sou'  west, 
The  fish-slick  stripes  the  crest 
Of  every  curlin',  swingin'  an'  swirlin',  billowin' 

ocean-guest, 

That  sweeps  to  the  wind'ard  rail 
An'  under  the  bulgin'  sail 
Seems  wavin'  its  welcome  with  clots  of  foam 
that  are  tossed  by  the  roguish  gale. 

Dory  here  an'  Dora  there, 

'Way  over  yon  at  Glo'ster; 
Those  clots  of  foam  seem  letters  from 
home 

To  pledge  I  haven't  lost  her. 


72  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Friskily  kickin',  the  dories  dance,  churnin'  the 

foamin'  lee, 
With  a  duck  an'  a  dive  an'  a  skip  an'  skive — 

the  bronchos  of  the  sea. 
Sheerin'  an'  veerin'  with  painter  a-flirt,  like  a 

frolicsome  filly's  tail, 
— Now  a  sweep  on  the  heavin'  deep,  close  to 

the  saggin'  rail, 
— Close  to  the  saggin'  rail, 
Jump!     If  you  cringe  or  fail, 
You're  doin'  a  turn  in  the  wake  astern  in  the 

role  of  a  grampus  whale. 
As  she  poises  herself  to  spring, 
— Nimble  an'  mischievous  thing, 
There's  only  the  flash  of  a  second  of  time  to 
capture  her  on  the  wing. 

Dory  here  an'  Dora  there! 

Sure,  they  drive  me  frantic. 
For  one  she  swims  on  the  ocean  of  whims, 

An'  one  on  the  broad  Atlantic. 

Sowin*  the  bait  from  the  trawl-heaped  tubs,  I 
pull  at  my  old  T.  D. 

An'  I  dream  of  a  pearl  of  a  Glo'ster  girl,  who's 
waitin'  at  home  for  me; 

Statin'  she's  waitin'  is  not  to  say  she's  prom 
ised  as  yet  her  hand, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   73 

For  she's  wild  as  my  dory — she  keeps  me  in 

worry; — they're  hard  to  understand. 
— They're  hard  to  understand, 
But  I've  got  the  question  planned, 
Please  God,  I'll  know  if  it's  weal  or  woe  as 

soon  as  I  get  to  land. 
For  a  man  who  can  catch  the  swing, 
Of  a  dory — mischievous  thing — 
Has  certainly  grit  to  capture  a  chit  of  a  maid 
about  to  spring. 

Dory  here  an'  Dora  there! 

They  keep  a  man  a-gnessin' , 
An'  here's  a  prayer  for  a  full-bin  fare, 

Then  home  for  the  parson  s  blessin'. 

WE  FELLERS  DIGGIN'  CLAMS 

Pluck,  pluck, 

Pluck,  pluck! 

Stubbin'  acrost  the  clam-flat  muck ! 
Ev'ry  time  I  lift  my  huck, 
— Hearin'  the  heel  of  my  old  boot  suck, 
It  seems  to  me  that  a  word  plops  out, 
And  I've  listened  so  often  there  ain't  no 

doubt 

It's  pluck,  pluck,  pluck. 
And  pluck  and  the  job  they  jest  agree 
— Dig  clams,  my  lad,  for  a  while  and  see ! 


74  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

It's  a  stiddy  kind  of  bus'ness  an'  it  ain't  for 

shiny  boots, 
But  still — ye  know,  'tain't  bad! 

It  ain't  an  occurpation  for  the  millionaire  ga 
loots, 
But  'tain't  so  mighty  wuss,  my  lad. 

It's  a  stiddy  kind  of  bus'ness  where  there  ain't 
no  room  for  doubt 

As  to  what  'ull  be  the  profit  and  where  ye're 
comin'  out. 

For  there  ain't  no  books  and  ledgers,  and  no 
botherin'  with  deals, 

No  dodgin'  law  and  lawyers  and  no  stock  con- 
trivin'  steals. 

Simply  take  a  leaky  dory  and  a  basket  and  a 
hoe, 

And  you're  fixed  for  doin'  bus'ness — ev'ry  fel 
ler  has  a  show. 

When  the  old  Atlantic  ocean  pulls  away  his 
swashin'  tide 

Why,  the  bank  is  there  'before  you  and  the 
doors  are  opened  wide; 

The  flats  are  there  etarnal  and  you  never  find 
the  sign 

Sayin',    "  Bank   has   shet   up   business — pres'- 
dent's  skipped  acrost  the  line." 

Shuck  away  yer  co't  and  weskit,  grab  the  clam- 
hoe's  muddy  haft, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   75 

And  endorsed  by  grit  and  muscle  you'll  get 

cash  on  ev'ry  draft. 
For  yer  check-book's  there,  the  clam  flat;    and 

yer  pen,  sir,  is  the  hoe, 
And  accounts  are  balanced  daily  by  the  ocean's 

ebb  and  flow. 

Then  the  climbin',  crawlin'  water  rubs  the  dig- 
gin'  marks  away, 
And  the  clams  are  jest  as  plenty  when  you 

come  another  day. 
And  the  sleep  that  toilers  labor  kind  of  smooths' 

us,  as  the  tide 
Smooths  the  nickin's  on  the  clam-flats  where 

our  busy  hoes  have  pried. 
So  the  nights   are  nights  of   comfort  and  I 

mostly  can  forget 
That  the  days  are  days  of  diggin', — cold  and 

muddy,  lame  and  wet. 
For  I'd  rather  have  a  backache  than  a  rattled, 

burnin'  brain, 
And  I  guess  I'm  fair  contented  with  the  clarn 

flats  here  in  Maine. 
For  I'm  thinkin'  worried  critters  in  the  rushin', 

pushin'  jams 
Likely  'nough  ain't  nigh  so  happy  as  we  fellers 

diggin'  clams. 


76  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


DAN'L  AND  DUNK 

Dan'l  and  Dunk  and  the  yaller  dog  were  the 

owners  and  crew  of  the  Pollywog, 
A  hand-line  smack  that  cuffed  the  seas  'twixt 

Tinicus  Head  and  Point  Quahaug. 
Dunk  owned  half  and  Dan  owned  half,  and  the 

yaller  dog  was  also  joint, 
They  fished  and  ate  and  swapped  their  bait  and 

always  agreed  on  every  point. 

— Dunk  to  Dan  and  Dan  to  Dunk, — 
Whenever  he  chawed  would  pass   the 

hunk; 

Never  a  "  hitch  "  more  friendly  than 
That  of  the  dog  and  Dunk  and  Dan. 

They  labored  steady  and  labored  square,  fairly 

dividing  every  fare, 
And  never  could  anything  break  their  bonds, 

each  to  the  other  would  often  swear. 
But  alas,  one  day  in  a  joking  way  they  fell  on 

the  topic  of  years  and  age, 
And  tackled  the  subject  of  boughten  teeth,  and 

spirited  argument  they  did  wage. 
For  Dan  insisted  that  sets  of  teeth  were  glued 

to  the  sides  of  the  wearers'  jaws, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   77 

— Never  had  seen  'em,  he  frankly  owned,  but 

he  knew  'twas  so,  "  wal,  jest  because." 
While  Dunk,  with  notions  fully  as  firm,  clawed 

at  his  frosty  whisker  fringe, 
And  allowed  that  he  knew  that  sets  of  teeth 

were   hitched    together    with    spring   and 

hinge. 
So,  still  perverse,  they  argued  on — the  quarrel, 

you  see,  was  their  very  first; 
'Twas  as  though  they  had  taken  a  sip  of  brine; 

the  more  they  quaffed,   the  worse  their 

thirst. 
They  argued  early  and  argued  late  and  the  dog 

surveyed  them  with  wistful  look 
For,    the   more   they   talked   the   worse   they 

balked,  and  forgot  to  fish  or  eat  or  cook. 

Dan  at  Dunk  and  Dunk  at  Dan, 
— On  contention  ran   and   ran, 
And  rancor  spread  its  sullen  fog 
'Twixt  Dunk  and  Dan  and  the  yaller 
dog. 

At  last  old  Dunk  uprose  and  cried,  "  Say  old 

hoss-mack'ril,  blast  yer  hide, 
I'm  sick  of  clack  and  fuss  and  gab;   it's  time,  I 

reckin,  that  we  divide. 


78  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An'  seein'  as  how  I've  spoke  the  fust,  I'll  take 

the  starn-end  here  for  mine." 
With  chalk  he  zoned  the  dingy  deck  and  roared, 

"  Git  for'rard  acrost  that  line!  " 
He  lighted  his  pipe  and  twirled  the  wheel  and 

calmly  then  he  crossed  his  knees. 
"  Go  for'rard,"  said  he,  "  this  end  is  mine  an' 

I'll  steer  jest  where  I  gol-durn  please." 
For'rard  went  Dan  with  never  a  word,  never 

protested,  never  demurred, 
But  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  cat-head  bolt  the 

sound  of  hammer  on  steel  was  heard. 
Splash !  went  the  anchor,  and  there  they  swung, 

fast  to  the  bottom  on  Doghead  shoal ; 
"  The  bow-end's  mine,"  yelled  Dan  to  Dunk, 

"  now  steer  if  ye  want  to,  blast  yer  soul !  " 

Dunk  to  Dan,  and  Dan  to  Dunk — 
Swore  they'd  sit  there  till  she  sunk. 
Neither  to  compromise  would  incline, 
And  the  dog  stood  straddling  the  mid 
dle  line. 

I'll  frankly  own  I  cannot  state  how  long  en 
dured  that  sullen  wait, 

I  only  know  they  never  returned  and  no  one 
ever  has  learned  their  fate. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE    79 

Perhaps  a  gale  with  a  lashing  tail,  champing 

and  roaring  and  frothing  wild, 
Clawed  them  under,  as  there  they  rode,  or  a 

hooting  liner  over  them  piled. 
But  known  it  is  that  for  days  and  weeks  the 

schooner  swayed  and  sogged  and  tossed, 
Straining    her    rusty    cable-chains,    before    all 

trace  of  her  was  lost. 
No  one  knows  how  they  met  their  death,  but 

certain  it  is  that  Dunk  and  Dan, 
Each  decided  he'd  rather  die  than  surrender  a 

point  to  the  other  man. 

Perhaps,  at  the  end  of  a  month  or  so,  Dunk  de 
cided  he'd  sink  his  half, 
Or  Dan  touched  match  and  burned  his  end, 

then  went  to  death  with  a  scornful  laugh. 
However  it  was,  this  much  is  sure,  that  out 

from  the  Grand  Banks'  sombre  fog, 
Never    came   back    the    Pollywog    smack,    or 

Dunk  or  Dan  or  the  yaller  dog. 


THE  AWFUL  WAH-HOOH-WOW 

She's    ashore    in    Gloucester   harbor,    with    a 

weary,  Icary  list, 
An'  the  mud  is  creepiri,  crcepin'  to  her  rail; 


80  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

She's  sound  in  ev'ry  timber — is  the  Mary  of 

the  Mist, 

But  the  broom  is  at  her  mast-head  as  a  sign 
that  she's  for  sale. 

Yet  no  one  wants  to  try  her, 
She  cannot  find  a  buyer — 
The  Hoodoo  is  upon  her,  an'  here  I  give  the 

tale. 
(The  story  has  a  warnin'  that's  as  plain  as 

plain  can  be, 

An'  'tis:  Never  go  to  triflin'  with  the  secrets 
of  the  sea.) 

Peter  Perkinson,  a  P.  I.*  from  Prince  Edward 

Island,  signed 
With    Foster's    folks    of    Gloucester    for    a 

"  chancin'  trip,"  hand-lined; 
An'  when  we  counted  noses  as  we  rounded 

Giant's  Grist 
We  found  the  chap  among  us  on  the  Mary  of 

the  Mist. 
An'  we  sized  him  for  a  "  conjer  "  ere  we'd 

fairly  got  to  sea; 
The  wind  was  whiffin'  crooked,  jest  as  mean  as 

mean  could  be; 


*"P.    I."    is    colloquial    term    for    Prince    Edward 
Islander. 


Then  the  skipper  spied  the  P.  I.  fubbin'  secret 

at  the  mast, 
An'  at  once  he  got  suspicious  an'  he  overhauled 

him  fast. 
The  chap  had  made  some  markin's  an'  he'd 

driven  in  a  nail — 
Oh,  we  understood  him  perfect — he  was  raisin' 

up  a  gale. 
The  skipper  gave  him  tophet,  but  the  damage 

then  was  done — 
The  gale  came  up  a-roarin'  with  the  settin'  of 

the  sun. 
Then  we  wallered  to  the  west'ard  an'  we  wal- 

lered  to  the  east, 
An'  we  seemed  the  core  an'  bowels  of  a  gob  of 

wind  an'  yeast. 
We  smashed  our  way  to  suth'ard,  an'  we  clawed 

an'  ratched  to  west, 
There  was  scarcely  time  for  eatin';   there  was 

never  chance  for  rest, 
With  the  liners  slammin'  past  us  through  the 

fog  an'  spume  an'  rain, 
An'  the  Mary  dodgin'  passers  like  a  puppy  in  a 

lane. 
The  third  day  found  us  flappin'  with  a  mighty 

ragged  wash, 
The  lee  rail  runnin'  under  an'  the  trawl  tubs  all 

a-swash, 


82  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An'  at  last  the  plummet  told  us  we  were  backii 

to'ards  the  shoals, 

Yet  we  couldn't  ratch  an'  leave  'em  with  ou 
canvas  rags  an'  holes. 
Tack — tack — tack — 
Still  a-slippin'  back; 

'Twas  a  time  for  meditatin'  on  the  prospect 
for  our  souls. 

Then   up   spoke   Isaac   Innis,   with   a   starin 

glarin'  glance, 
An'    he    says :     "  My    friends,    I'm    lookir 

where  I  look! 
I  hain't  a  saint  in  no  way,  an'  I'll  give  a  man 

chance, 

But  I  think  I  see  a  Jonah  if  I  hain't  a  Ic 
mistook. 

I  reckon  ye  discern  him, 
Now  over  goes  he,  durn  him, 
Unless    he    squares    the    Hoodoo    that    he1 

brought,  by  hook  or  crook." 
(We  stood  there,  grim  an'  solemn,  an'  w 

bent  our  gaze  upon 

The  stranger  "  conjer  "  sailor,  that  P.  I.- 
Perkinson. ) 

He  never  flinched  nor  quivered,  though  we' 
reckoned  that  he  would, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   83 

He  simply  turned  an'  faced  us,  an'  he  says :  "  I 

meant  ye  good. 
I  asked  a  breeze  from  suth'ard,  but  it  slipped 

an'  got  away; 
Still,  you  needn't  worry,  shipmates!     When  I 

owe  a  debt  I'll  pay." 

He  reeved  a  coil  of  hawser  that  the  Mary  car 
ried  spare, 
An'  fastened  on  a  gang-hook  an'  baited  it  with 

care. 
Then  he  took  a  magic  vial  an'  he  sprinkled  on 

the  bait 
A  charm  that  Splithoof  gave  him,  it  is  safe  to 

calkerlate. 
He  hitched  a  dagon-sinker  an'  he  let  the  line 

run  free, 
An*  overboard  he  fired  it,  kersplasho,  in  the 

sea, 
We  didn't  get  the  language  of  the  secret  spells 

he  said, 
But  we  gathered  he  was  fishin'  on  the  deepest 

ocean  bed. 
We  heard  him  as  he  muttered  an'  it  seemed 

that  he  could  tell 
What  kind  of  fish  was  bitin',  with  an  eyesight 

straight  from  hell. 
"  Ah,  brim,"  he  sort  o'  chanted  as  he  gave  the 

line  a  twig — 


82  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An'  at  last  the  plummet  told  us  we  were  backin' 

to'ards  the  shoals, 

Yet  we  couldn't  ratch  an'  leave  'em  with  our 
canvas  rags  an'  holes. 
Tack — tack — tack — 
Still  a-slippin'  back; 

'Twas  a  time  for  meditatin'  on  the  prospects 
for  our  souls. 

Then   up   spoke   Isaac   Innis,   with   a   starin', 

glarin'  glance, 
An'    he    says :     "  My    friends,    I'm   lookin' 

where  I  look! 
I  hain't  a  saint  in  no  way,  an'  I'll  give  a  man  a 

chance, 

But  I  think  I  see  a  Jonah  if  I  hain't  a  lot 
mistook. 

I  reckon  ye  discern  him, 
Now  over  goes  he,  durn  him, 
Unless    he    squares    the    Hoodoo    that    he's 

brought,  by  hook  or  crook." 
(We  stood  there,  grim  an'  solemn,  an'  we 

bent  our  gaze  upon 

The  stranger  "  conjer  "  sailor,  that  P.  I. — 
Perkinson.) 

He  never  flinched  nor  quivered,  though  we'd 
reckoned  that  he  would, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   83 

He  simply  turned  an'  faced  us,  an'  he  says :  "  I 

meant  ye  good. 
I  asked  a  breeze  from  suth'ard,  but  it  slipped 

an'  got  away; 
Still,  you  needn't  worry,  shipmates!     When  I 

owe  a  debt  I'll  pay." 

He  reeved  a  coil  of  hawser  that  the  Mary  car 
ried  spare, 
An'  fastened  on  a  gang-hook  an'  baited  it  with 

care. 
Then  he  took  a  magic  vial  an'  he  sprinkled  on 

the  bait 
A  charm  that  Splithoof  gave  him,  it  is  safe  to 

calkerlate. 
He  hitched  a  dagon-sinker  an'  he  let  the  line 

run  free, 
An'  overboard  he  fired  it,  kersplasho,  in  the 

sea, 
We  didn't  get  the  language  of  the  secret  spells 

he  said, 
But  we  gathered  he  was  fishin'  on  the  deepest 

ocean  bed. 
We  heard  him  as  he  muttered  an'  it  seemed 

that  he  could  tell 
What  kind  of  fish  \vas  bitin',  with  an  eyesight 

straight  from  hell. 
"  Ah,  brim,"  he  sort  o'  chanted  as  he  gave  the 

line  a  twig — 


86  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An'  must  pay  his  lawful  tribute  to  the  awful 

Wah-hooh-wow. 
We  saw  Its  neck  a-curvin'  an'  we  heard  Its  red 

tongue  lick 
As  It  drooled  an'  swoofed  the  drippin's,  and 

then,  as  one  might  pick 
A  ripe  an'  juicy  cherry,  It  grabbed  that  "  con- 

jer  "  man 
An'  sank  with  coils  a-flashin'  in  the  light  from 

old  Cape  Ann, 
An'  we — we  towed  with  dories  till  we  got  to 

Gloucester  shore — 
An'  you'll  never  get  a  Banksman  on  the  Mary 

any  more. 

No — no — no ! 
Not  a  man  will  go, 

For  her  towage  fee  hain't  settled  till  the  Wah- 
hooh-wow  takes  four. 

She's   ashore   in   Gloucester   harbor  with    a 

weary,  leary  list, 

An'  the  mud  is  creepin' ,  creepin'  to  her  rail; 
She's  sound  in  ev'ry  timber — is  the  Mary  of 

the  Mist, 

But  the  broom  is  at  her  mast-head  as  a  sign 
that  she's  for  sale. 

Yet  no  one  wants  to  try  her, 
She  cannot  find  a  buyer — 


The  Hoodoo  is  upon  her,  an'  I've  given  you  the 

tale. 
(The  story  has  a  warnin'  that's  as  plain  as 

plain  can  be, 

An'  'tis:  Never  go  to  triflin'  ivith  the  secrets 
of  the  sea.) 


SKIPPER  JASON  ELLISON 

His  nose  was  like  a  liver  hung  against  a  Hub- 
bard  squash, 
— That  nose  of  Jason  Ellison,   the   skipper  of 

the  "  Hanks." 
His  nose  was  like  a  liver  and  the  color  wouldn't 

wash, 
But  the  men  that  "  chanced  "  on  trips  with  him, 

they  always  got  the  dosh, 
For  there  wa'n't    another    skipper   who  could 
touch  him  on  the  Banks. 

Whether  biz  was  tight  or  slack, 
— When  Jase  came  sailin'  back 
A  gang  was  always  coaxin'  for  a  berth  upon 
his  smack. 

Not  another  Gloucester  skipper 
Had  sech  easy  job  to  ship  a 
Topper-notcher  fishin'  crew,  with  ev'ry  man  a 
crack. 


88  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


For,  you  see,  he  was  a  wizard; — he  did  won 
ders  with  that  nose, 

He  could  sniff  and  tell  the  weather-sign  of  ev'ry 
gust  that  rose ; 

You  could  figure  from  its  color  'twas  a  most 
uncommon  snoot, 

And  whenever  he  predicted  no  one  ventured  to 
dispute. 

His  eye  could  nail  a  fish-slick  off  a  league  or  so 
away, 

— He  could  look  around  a  corner,  so  his  fel 
lows  used  to  say; 

But  the  thing  'twas  most  uncommon — where 
our  whole  dependence  hung, 

Was  his  long  and  round  and  peak-ed  champion 
taster  of  a  tongue. 

'Twas  always  out  and  chasin'  round  the  edges 
of  his  lip; 

When  a  nasty  time  was  brewin' 
It  was  always  out  and  doin' 

Like  as  though  it  felt  responsible  for  helpin' 
handle  ship. 

It  had  tasted  ev'ry  bottom  soil  from  Quero  to 

the  Cow, 
It  knew  the  taste  and  savor,  the  place  and  where 

and  how. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE  89 

— Darkest  night  or  wildest  hurricane  that  ever 

ramped  or  blew, 
We  never  lost  our  bearin's,  for  old  Jason  always 

knew. 
We  would  take  some  mutton  taller  and  we'd 

fill  the  hollowed  head 
Of  the  plummet,  smooth  and  even,  then  a  man 

would  throw  the  lead. 
And  we'd  pass  her  back  to  Jason  and  he'd  turn 

the  plummet  up, 
Taste  the  scrimp  of  soil  that  stuck  there  on  the 

taller  in  the  cup, 
And  he'd  tell  us  where  we  headed,  though  the 

night  be  black's  a  coal, 
For  he  knew  the  taste  of  bottoms  from  the  Cow 

to  Quero  Shoal. 

— Told  us  easy,  off  the  reel, 
What  was  underneath  our  keel, 
— Didn't  need  the  sun  or  quadrant  with  old 

Jason  at  the  wheel; 
He  was  only  once  mistaken  in  the  memory  of 

men, 
— And   we've   always   kept    insistin'    that   he 

wa'n't  mistaken  then. 

The  storm  came  down  upon  us  from  the  nor'- 
nor'east  by  east, 


90  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— 'Twas  an  equinoctial  pealer, 
A  reg'lar  ring-tail  squealer, 
The  sky  was  hasty  puddin'  and  the  sea  beneath 

was  yeast. 
When  the  Hanks  went  tossin'  up'ards  it  really 

seemed  we  flew, 
And  the  sky  seemed  splittin'  open  for  to  let 

our  vessel  through; 
When  we  wallowed  down  wher-rooshin'  in  the 

gulf  that  gawped  beneath, 
We'd  'a'  left  our  hearts  behind  us  if  we  hadn't 
clinched  our  teeth. 
We'd  really  seem  to  feel 
Old  Hankses'  battered  keel 
Go  bumpin'  on  the  bottom  when  she  made  her 
downward  reel. 

But  the  more  she  blew  and  blew, 
Old  Jason  cheered  his  crew, 
— His  whiskers  whipping  snappin'  as  the  wind 

went  screamin'  through. 
So  we  hung  to  brace  and  riggin'  and  we  let  her 

roar  and  roll, 

While  each  man  pinned  to  Ellison  the  safety  of 
his  soul. 

Then  at  last  we  knew  'twas  night-time  by  the 
thick'nin'  overhead, 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE  91 

And   Jason   licked   his  taster   and   he   yelled: 

"  Now  throw  the  lead !  " 
An'  we — we  blinked  to  watch  him  from  the 

darkness  where  we  clung, 
And  waited  for  the  verdict,  of  that  long  and 

peak-ed  tongue. 
He  tasted — then  he  waited,  and  he  smacked  his 

lips  a  spell, 
He  tasted — tasted — tasted,   then  he  gave  an 

awful  yell: 

"  My  God,  ye  critters,  pray !  " 
— He  slung  the  lead  away, — 
And  howled :    "  The  world  is  endin' !    It's  the 

final  Judgment  Day! 

That  plummet,  there,  has  brought  us  up  a  hand 
ful  of  the  loam 
From  the  Widder  Abbott's  garden  on  the  Neck 

ro'd,  back  at  home. 
A  tidal  wave  has  lifted  us — the  Hanks  has  run 

away! 

— It  has  tossed  'er  over  Glo'ster, 

And  we  sartin  sure  have  lost  'er, 

'Less  ye  pray,  ye  sin-struck  critters,  'less  ye 

pray,  pray,  pray !  " 

Each  clung  to  rope  and  stanchion,  each  hung  to 
stay  and  brace, 


92  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Each  prayed  up  at  the  heavens  while  the  spin 
drift  lashed  his  face; 

We  prayed  and  prayed  till  mornin' 
Till  the  early,  yaller  dawnin' 
Lit  up  the  sea  around  us,  and  it  also  lit  our 
case; 

Then  we  found  an  explanation 
Of  the  sing'lar  situation 
That  was  figgered  in  the  darkness  of  the  night 

'by  Uncle  Jase. 
For  we  noticed  there  was  settin'  up  against  the 

le'ward  rail 

Some  lavender  and  other  yarbs,  a-growin'  in  a 
pail. 

— They'd  been  brought  aboard  by  Jase 
Who  had  worn  a  meechin'  face, 
For  his  sparkin'  of  the  widder  was  the  gossip 
of  the  place. 

He  knowed  a  flower-garden  looked  peecooliar 
on  the  Hanks, 

But  he  wanted  some  momentum  of  the  widder 
on  the  Banks. 

Now,  the  plummet  bein'  handled  in  the  dark 
ness  of  that  night 

Somehow  cuffed  that  dirt  in  passin' — as  ye 
might  say,  took  a  bite. 


SONGS  of  the  SEA  AND  SHORE   93 

And  Jason  knew  the  flavor  of  that  scrimp  of 

garden  loam, 
— There  wa'n't  a  soil  to  fool  him  'twixt  Quero 

Shoal  and  home. 

By  the  flavor  and  the  feel 
He  could  tell  us  off  the  reel, 
The  name  of  any  bottom  that  was  underneath 

our  keel. 
He  was  only  once  mistaken  in  the  memory  of 

men, 
And  his  crew  will  keep  insistin'  that  he  wa'n't 

mistaken  then. 


BALLADS   OF  DRIVE   AND 
CAMP 

THE  RAPO-GENUS  CHRISTMAS  BALL 
There  had  been  no  social  doings  since  the  drive 

had  passed  the  flume, 
And    the    section    from    Seboomook    to    the 

Chutes  was  rather  blue; 
So  the  folks  at  Rapo-genus,  where  there's  rum 

enough  and  room, 
Arranged   a   Christmas   function   and   invited 

Murphy's  crew. 
The  folks  at  Rapo-genus  hired  Ezra  Hewson's 

hall, 
And  posted  up  the  notice  for  "  Our  Yearly 

Christmas  Ball." 

Now  Murphy's  crew  was  willing  and  they 
walked  the  fifteen  miles, 

And  arrived  at  Rapo-genus  wearing  most  be 
nignant  smiles. 

The  genial  floor  director  waited  near  the  outer 
door, 

And  pleasantly  suggested  they  remove  the 
boots  they  wore. 

He  said  that  Rapo-genus  wished  to  make  of 
this  affair 

94 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP    95 

An   elegant   occasion,    "  reshershay   and   day- 

bonair;  " 
So  it  seemed  the  town's  opinion,  after  many 

long  disputes, 

That  'twas  time  to  change  the  custom  and  ex 
clude  the  spike-sole  boots. 
He  owned  'twas  rather  drastic  and  would  cause 

a  social  jar 
'Twixt  Upper  Ambejejus  and  the  Twin  Deps- 

connequah, 
"  But  'tis  settled,"  so  he  told  them,  "  that  nary 

lady  likes 
To  do  these  fancy  dances  with  a  gent  what's 

wearin'  spikes. 
So  I  asks  ye  very  kindly,  but  I  asks  ye  one  and 

all, 
To  leave  your  brogan  calkers  on  the  outside  of 

this  hall." 
'  This  'ere  is  sort  o'  sudden,"  said  the  boss  of 

Murphy's  crew, 
"  Jest  excuse  us  for  a  minute,  but  we  don't 

know  what  to  do. 
We've  attended  social  functions  at  the  Upper 

Churchill  Chutes, 
An'    the    smartest    set    they    had    there    was 

a-wearin'  spike-sole  boots. 
Excuse  us  for  the.  mention,  but  we  feel  com 
pelled  to  say, 


96  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Tisn't  fair  to  shift  a  fashion  all  a  sudden,  this 
'ere  way ; 

An'  the  local  delegation,  when  it  came  with  the 
in-vite, 

Omitted  partunt  leathers  in  its  mention  of  to 
night. 

So  I  guess  ye'll  have  to  take  us  with  these 
spikes  upon  our  soles, 

We  can't  appear  in  stockin's,  'cause  the  most  of 
us  have  holes." 

But  the  genial  floor  director  guarded  still  the 

outer  door 
And  declared  that  "  gents  with  spikers  weren't 

allowed  upon  the  floor." 
He  said  'twas  very  awkward  that  special  guests 

should  thus 
Be  kept  in  outer  darkness,  and  he  didn't  want  a 

fuss. 
But  so  long  as  Rapo-genusites  had  issued  their 

decree 
He  hadn't  any  option,  "  as  a  gent  with  sense 

could  see." 
So  he  passed  his  ultimatum,  "  Ye  must  shed 

them  spike-sole  boots ! 
For  we  hain't  the  sort  of  humstrums  that  ye'll 

find  at  Churchill  Chutes." 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP    97 

Then  up  spoke  Smoky  Finnegan,  the  boss  of 

Murphy's  crew, 
Said  he,   "  The  push  at  Churchill  sha'n't  be 

slurred  by  such  as  you. 
We're  gents  that's  very  gentle  an'  we  never 

make  a  fuss, 
But  in  slurrin'  folks  at  Churchill  ye  are  also 

slurrin'  us. 

We  have  interduced  the  fashions  up  at  Church 
ill  quite  a  while, 
An'  no  Rapo-genus  half-breeds  have  the  right 

to  trig  our  style. 
If  ye've  dropped  the  vogue  of  spikers  at  the 

present  Christmas  ball 
We  will  start  the  fashion  over,  good  and  solid, 

that  is  all ! 
So,  mister,  please  excuse  us,  but  ye'll  open  up 

your  sluice, 
Or  God  have  mercy  on  ye  if  I  turn  these  gents 

here  loose!  " 

Then  the  genial  floor  director  shouted  back 

within  the  room, 
"  Ho,  men  of  Rapo-genus,  here  is  trouble  at 

the  boom !  " 
But  even  as  he  shouted,  with  a  rush  and  crush 

and  roar, 


98  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Like  a  bursting  jam  of  timber  Murphy's  angels 
stormed  the  door. 

Then  against  them  rose  the  sawyers  of  the 
Rapo-genus  mill, 

Who  rallied  for  the  conflict  with  a  most  in 
trepid  will, 

But  by  new  decree  of  fashion  they  were  wear 
ing  boughten  suits 

And  even  all  the  boomsmen  had  put  off  their 
spike-sole  boots. 

So  that  gallant  crew  of  Murphy's  simply  trod 
upon  their  feet, 

And  backward,  howling,  cursing,  they  com 
pelled  them  to  retreat. 

The  air  was  full  of  slivers  as  the  spikers  chewed 
the  floor, 

And  the  man  whose  feet  were  punctured  didn't 
battle  any  more. 

"  Now,  fellers,  boom  the  outfit,"  shouted  Fin- 

negan,  the  boss, 
His  choppers  formed  a  cordon  and  they  swept 

the  room  across; 
The  people  who  were  standing  at  the  walls  in 

double  ranks, 
Were  pulled  and  thrown  to  center  at  the  order, 

"  Clear  the  banks !  " 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP   99 

Then  they  herded  Rapo-genus  in  the  middle  of 
the  room, 

And  slung  themselves  around  it  like  a  human 
pocket-boom. 

All  the  matrons  and  the  maidens  were  as 
frightened  as  could  be 

When  Finnegan  commanded,  "  Now  collect  the 
boomage  fee !  " 

At  a  corner  of  the  cordon  they  arranged  a  sort 
ing-gap 

And  one  by  one  the  women  were  escorted  from 
the  trap, 

And  without  a  word  of  protest,  as  they  drifted 
slowly  through, 

They  paid  their  tolls  in  kisses  to  the  men  of 
Murphy's  crew. 

And  at  last  when  all  the  women  had  been  sorted 
from  the  crowd, 

The  men  were  "  second-raters,"  so  the  boss  of 
Murphy's  vowed. 

"  We  will  raft  them  down  as  pulp-stuff !  "  and 
he  yelled  to  close  about, 

"  Now,  my  hearties,  start  the  windlass,"  or 
dered  he,  "  we'll  warp  'em  out !  " 

Through  the  doorway,  down  the  stairway,  grim 
and  struggling,  thronged  the  press, 


TOO          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— All  the  brawn  of  Rapo-genus  fighting  hard 

without  success, 
They   were   herded   down  the   middle   of   the 

Rapo-genus  street, 
— If  they  tried  to  buck  the  center  they  were 

bradded  on  the  feet; 

They  were  yarded  at  the  river;   Murphy's  pea- 
vies  smashed  the  ice, 
Though  the  men  of  Rapo-genus  couldn't  smash 

that  human  vise 
That  held  them,  jammed  them,  forced  them! 

When  the  water  touched  their  toes, 
Then  at  last  they  fought  like  demons  for  to 

save  their  boughten  clothes. 
But  as  fierce  were  Murphy's  hearties,  and  their 

spikers  helped  them  win, 
For  they  kicked  and  spurred  their  victims  and 

they  dragged  them  shrieking  in. 
Then  with  water  to  their  shoulders  there  they 

kept  them  in  the  wet 
While  they  gave  them  points  on  breeding  and 

the  rules  of  etiquette. 
And  at  midnight  'twas  decided  by  a  universal 

vote 
That  the  strict  demands  of  fashion  do  not  call 

for  vest  or  coat; 
That  'twixt  Upper  Ambejejus  and   the   Twin 

Depsconnequah 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP   101 

Shirts  of  red  and   checkered  flannel   are  the 

smartest  form,  by  far. 
And  that  gents  may  chew  tobacco  was  declared 

in  all  ways  fit 
If  they  only  use  discretion  as  to  when  and 

where  they  spit. 
And  above  all  future  cavil,  sneer  or  jeer  or  vain 

disputes, 
High  was  set  this  social  edict :     "  Gents  may 

wear  their  spike-sole  boots." 
Then  the  men  of  Rapo-genus  and  the  men  of 

Murphy's  crew 
They   dissolved   their   joint   convention — they 

were  near  dissolving,  too! 
And  to  counteract  the  action  of  the  water  on 

the  skin 
They  applied  some  balmy  lotion  to  the  proper 

parts  within. 

Then  they  danced  till  ruddy  morning,  and  their 

drying  garments  steamed, 
And  awful  was  the  shrinkage  of  those  seven- 
dollar  suits ! 
And  the  feet  of  Murphy's  woodsmen  gashed 

and  slashed  and  clashed  and  seamed, 
Till  a  steady  rain  of  slivers  rained  behind 
those  bradded  boots. 


102  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— And  all  disputes  of  etiquette  were  buried  once 

for  all, 
At  that  Christmas  social  function,  the  Rapo- 

genus  Ball. 

WHEN  THE  ALLEGASH  DRIVE  GOES 
THROUGH 

We're  spurred  with  the  spikes  in  our  soles; 

There  is  water  a-swash  in  our  boots; 
Our  hands  are  hard-calloused  by  peavies  and 

poles, 
And  we're  drenched  with  the  spume  of  the 

chutes. 
We  gather  our  herds  at  the  head 

Where  the  axes  have  toppled  them  loose, 
And  down  from  the  hills  where  the  rivers  are 

fed 
We  harry  the  hemlock  and  spruce. 

We  hurroop  them  with  the  peavies  from  their 

sullen  beds  of  snow; 
With  the  pickpole  for  a  goadstick,  down  the 

brimming   streams   we   go; 
They  are  hitching,  they  are  halting,  and  they 

lurk  and  hide  and  dodge, 
They  sneak  for  skulking  eddies,  they  bunt  the 

bank  and  lods'e. 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP    103 

And  we  almost  can  imagine  that  they  hear  the 
yell  of  saws 

And  the  grunting  of  the  grinders  of  the  paper- 
mills  because 

They  loiter  in  the  shallows  and  they  cob-pile  at 
the  falls, 

And  they  buck  like  ugly  cattle  where  the  broad 
deadwater  crawls. 

But  we  wallow  in  and  welt  'em  with  the  water 
to  our  waist, 

For  the  driving  pitch  is  dropping  and  the 
Drouth  is  gasping  "  Haste !  " 

Here  a  dam  and  there  a  jam,  that  is  grabbed 
by  grinning  rocks, 

Gnawed  by  the  teeth  of  the  ravening  ledge  that 
slavers  at  our  flocks; 

Twenty  a  month  for  daring  Death ;  for  fighting 
from  dawn  to  dark — 

Twenty  and  grub  and  a  place  to  sleep  in  God's 
great  public  park; 

We  roofless  go,  with  the  cook's  bateau  to  fol 
low  our  hungry  crew — 

A  billion  of  spruce  and  hell  turned  loose  when 
the  Allegash  drive  goes  through. 

My  lad  with  the  spurs  at  his  heel 
Has  a  cattle-ranch  bronco  to  bust; 


104          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

A  thousand  of  Texans  to  wheedle  and  wheel 
To  market  through  smother  and  dust. 

But  I  with  the  peavy  and  pole 

Am  driving  the  herds  of  the  pine, 

Grant  to  my  brother  what  suits  his  soul, 
But  no  bellowing  brutes  in  mine. 

He  would  wince  to  wade  and  wallow — and  I 

hate  a  horse  or  steer! 
But  we  stand  the  kings  of  herders — he   for 

There  and  I  for  Here. 
Though  he  rides  with  Death  behind  him  when 

he  rounds  the  wild  stampede, 
I  will  chop  the  jamming  king-log  and  I'll  match 

him,  deed  for  deed. 
And  for  me  the  greenwood  savor  and  the  lash 

across  my  face 
Of  the  spitting  spume  that  belches  from  the 

back- wash  of  the  race; 
The  glory  of  the  tumult  where  the  tumbling 

torrent  rolls 
With  a  half  a  hundred  drivers  riding  through 

with  lunging  poles. 
Here's   huzza,   for   reckless   chances!      Here's 

hurrah  for  those  who  ride 
Through   the  jaws  of  boiling  sluices,  yeasty 

white  from  side  to  side! 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP    105 

Our  brawny  fists  are  calloused  and  we're  mostly 

holes  and  hair, 
But  if  grit  were  golden  bullion  we'd  have  coin 

to  spend,  and  spare! 

Here  some  rips  and  there  the  lips  of  a  whirl 
pool's  bellowing  mouth, 

Death  we  clinch  and  Time  we  fight,  for  be 
hind  us  gasps  the  Drouth. 

Twenty  a  month,  bateau  for  a  home,  and  only 
a  peep  at  town, 

For  our  money  is  gone  in  a  brace  of  nights 
after  the  drive  is  down; 

But  with  peavies  and  poles  and  care-free  souls 
our  ragged  and  roofless  crew 

Swarms  gayly  along  with  whoop  and  song 
when  the  Allegash  drive  does  through. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  SPIKE-SOLE 
BOOTS 

They  had  told  me  to  'ware  of  the  "  Hulling 
Machine," 

But  a  tenderfoot  is  a  fool ! 
Though  the  man  that's  new  to  a  birch  canoe 

Believes  that  he  knows,  as  a  rule. 
They  had  told  me  to  carry  a  mile  above 

Where  the  broad  deadwater  slips 


io6  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Into  fret  and  shoal  to  tumble  and  roll 

In  the  welter  of  Schoodic  rips; 
But  knowing  it  all,  as  a  green  man  does, 

And  lazy,  as  green  men  are, 
I  hated  to  pack  on  my  aching  back 

My  duffle  and  gear  so  far. 

So,  as  down  the  rapids  there  stretched  a  strip 

With  a  most  encouraging  sheen, 
I  settled  the  blade  of  my  paddle  and  made 

For  the  head  of  the  "  Hulling  Machine." 
It  wasn't  because  I  hadn't  been  warned 

That  I  rode  full  tilt  at  Death- 
It  was  simply  the  plan  of  an  indolent  man 

To  save  his  back  and  his  breath. 
For  I  reckoned  I'd  slice  for  the  left-hand  shore 

When  the  roar  of  the  falls  drew  near, 
And  I  braced  my  knees  and  took  my  ease — 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  steer. 

(There  are  many  savage  cataracts,  slavering 

for  prey, 
'Twixt  Abol-jackamcgus  and  the  lozuer  Brass- 

u-a, 
But  of  all  the  yowling  demons  that  are  wicked 

and  accurst, 
The  demon  of  the  Hulling  Place  is  ugliest  and 

worst.) 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP  107 

Now  the  strip  in  that  river  like  burnished  steel 

Looked  comfortable  and  slow, 
But  my  birch  canoe  went  shooting  through 

Like  an  arrow  out  of  a  bow. 
And    the    way    was    hedged    by    ledges    that 
grinned 

As  they  shredded  the  yeasty  tide 
And  hissed  and  laughed  at  my  racing  craft 

As  it  drove  on  its  headlong  ride. 
I  sagged  on  the  paddle  and  drove  it  deep, 

But  it  snapped  like  a  pudding-stick, 
Then  I  staked  my  soul  on  my  steel-shod  pole, 

And  the  pole  smashed  just  as  quick. 
There  was   nothing  to  do  but  to  clutch   the 
thwarts 

And  crouch  in  that  birchen  shell, 
And  grit  my  teeth  as  I  viewed  beneath 

The  boil  of  that  watery  hell. 
I  may  have  cursed — I  don't  know  now— 

I  may  have  prayed  or  wept, 
But  I  yelled  halloo  to  Connor's  crew 

As  past  their  camp  I  swept. 
I  yelled  halloo  and  I  waved  adieu 

With  a  braggart's  shamming  mien, 
Then  over  the  edge  of  the  foaming  ledge 

I  dropped  in  the  "  Hulling  Machine." 


io8  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

(A  driver  hates  a  coward  as  he  hates  diluted 

rye; 
Stiff  upper-lip  for  living,  stiff  backbone  when 

you  die! 
They  cheered  me  when  I  passed  them;    they 

followed  me  with  cheers, 
That,  as  bracers  for  a  dying  man,  are  better  far 

than  tears.) 

The  "  Hulling-  Place  "  spits  a  spin  of  spume 

Steaming  from  brink  to  brink, 
And  it  seemed  that  my  soul  was  cuffed  in  a 
bowl 

Where  a  giant  was  mixing  his  drink. 

And  'twas  only  by  luck  or  freak  or  fate, 

Or  because  I'm  reserved  to  be  hung, 
That  I  found  myself  on  a  boulder  shelf 

Where  I  flattened  and  gasped  and  clung. 
To  left  the  devilment  roared  and  boiled, 

To  right  it  boiled  and  roared; 
On  either  side  the  furious  tide 

Denied  all  hope  of  ford. 
So  I  clutched  at  the  face  of  the  dripping  ledge 

And  crouched  from  the  lashing  rain, 
While   the   thunderous   sound   of   the   tumult 
ground 

Its  iron  into  my  brain. 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP   109 

I  stared  at  the  sun  as  he  blinked  above 

Through  whorls  of  the  rolling  mists, 
And  I  said  good-by  and  prepared  to  die 

As  the  current  wrenched  my  wrists. 
But  just  as  I  loosened  my  dragging  clutch, 

Out  of  the  spume  and  fogs 
A  chap  drove  through — one  o'  Connor's  crew — 

Riding  two  hemlock  logs. 
He  was  holding  his  pick-pole  couched  at  Death 

As  though  it  were  lance  in  rest, 
And  his  spike-sole  boots,  as  firm  as  roots, 

In  the  splintered  bark  were  pressed. 
If  this  be  sacrilege,  pardon  me,  pray; 

But  a  robe  such  as  angels  wear 
Seemed  his  old  red  shirt  with  its  smears  of  dirt, 

And  a  halo  his  mop  of  hair; 
And  never  a  knight  in  a  tournament 

Rode  lists  with  a  jauntier  mien 
Than  he  of  the  drive  who  came  alive 

Through  the  hell  of  the  "Hulling  Ma 
chine." 
He  dragged  me  aboard  with  a  giant  swing, 

And  he  guided  the  rushing  raft 
Serenely  cool  to  the  foam-flecked  pool 

Where  the  dimpling  shallows  laughed. 
And  he  drawled  as  he  poled  to  the  nearest 
shore, 

While  I  stuttered  my  gratitude: 


no  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  I  jest  came  through  to  show  that  crew 
I'm  a  match  for  a  sportsman  dude." 

There  are  only  two  who  have  raced  those  falls 

And  by  lucky  chance  were  spared : 
Myself  dragged  there  in  a  fool's  despair 

And  he,  the  man  who  dared ! 
I  make  no  boast,  as  you'll  understand, 

And  there's  never  a  boast  from  him; 
And  even  his  name  is  lost  to  fame — 

I  simply  know  'twas  "  Jim." 
If  Jim  was  a  fool,  as  I  hear  you  say 

With  a  sneer  beneath  your  breath, 
So  were  knights  of  old  who  in  tourneys  bold 

Lunged  blithesomely  down  at  Death. 
And  if  I  who  was  snatched  from  the  jaws  of 
hell 

Am  to  name  a  knight  to  you, 
Here's  the  Knight  of  the  Firs,  of  the  Spike- 
S'ole  Spurs, 

That  man  from  Connor's  crew ! 

"  BOARD  FOR  THE  ALLEGASH  " 

A  hundred  miles  through  the  wilds  of  Maine 
You  soon  may  ride  on  a  railroad  train. 
Some  Yankee  hustlers  have  planned  the  scheme 
To  take  the  place  of  the  tote-road  team. 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP  in 

They  have  the  charter,  the  grit  and  cash 
To  stretch  their  tracks  to  the  Allegash. 
Along  the  length  of  the  forest  route 
The  woodland  creatures  will  hear  the  hoot 
Of  the  bullgine's  whistle,  where  up  to  now 
The  big  bull  moose  has  called  his  cow. 
And  old  Katahdin's  long  fin-back 
Will  echo  loud  with  the  clickity-clack 
Of  wheels  that  merrily  clatter  and  clash 
Through  the  sylvan  wastes  toward  the  Alle 
gash. 

Sing  hey !   for  the  route  to  Churchill  Lake, 

But  oh,  for  the  chap  who  twists  the  brake. 

His  buckskin  gloves  will  save  the  wear 

On  his  good  stout  palms,  you  know,  but  where 

Will  he  find  relief  when  his  throat  is  lame 

With  the  wrench  of  a  yard-long  Indian  name? 

'Tis  something,  friend,  of  a  lingual  trick 

To  say  "  Seboois  "  and  "  Wassataquoick," 

"  Lunksoos,"  is  tame  and  "  Nesourdneheunk," 

But  what  do  you  say  to  a  verbal  chunk 

To  chew  at  once  of  the  size  of  this : 

"  Pok-um-kes-wango-mok-kessis  "  ? 

I  don't  believe  'twould  phase  a  man 

To  bellow  out  "  Lah-kah-hegan  "; 

His  windpipe  scarcely  would  get  a  crook 

By  spouting  forth,  "  Pong-kwahemook," 


112  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  even  "  Pata-quon-gamis  " 

Is  easy.     But  just  look  at  this : 

Ah,  where  is  he  who  wouldn't  run 

From  "  Ap-mo-jenen-ma-gamm  "? 

E'en  "  Umbazookskus  "  scratches  some, 

But  doesn't  this  just  strike  you  dumb? 

"  Nahma-juns-kwon-ahgamoc  "  ? 

Just  think  of  having  that  to  sock 

Athwart  the  palpitating  air 

Straight  at  a  frightened  passengaire. 

Hot  bearings  can  be  swabbed  with  oil, 

And  busted  culverts  yield  to  toil, 

One  can  replace  a  broken  rail 

But  larynxes  are  not  on  sale. 

So,  while  it's  hey  for  Churchill  Lake 

It's  oh,  for  the  chap  who  twists  the  brake. 

THE  WANGAN  CAMP  * 

The  wangan  camp! 

The  ivangan  camp! 

Did  ye  ever  go  a-shoppin'  in  the  wangan 
camp? 

You  can  get  some  plug  tobacker  or  a  lovely 
corn-cob  pipe, 


*The   wangan   is    the   woods   store  that  most  of  the 
Maine  lumber  camps  maintain. 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP     113 

Or  a  pair  o'  fuzzy  •  trowsers  that  was  picked 

before  they's  ripe. 
They  fit  ye   like  your  body   had  a  dreadful 

lookin'   twist ; 
There  is  shirts  that's  red  and  yaller  and  with 

plaids  as  big's  your  fist; 
There    are   larrigans    and    shoe-packs    for   all 

makes  and  shapes  of  men, 
As  yaller  as  the  standers  of  a  Cochin  China 

hen, 
The  goods  is  rather  shop-worn  and  purraps  a 

leetle  damp, 
—But  you  take  'em  or  you  leave  'em — either 

suits  the  wangan  camp. 

The  wangan  camp! 

The  wangan  camp! 

There  is  never  any  mark-downs  at  the 
wangan  camp. 

The  folks  that  knit  the  stockin's  that  they  sell 

to  us,  why  say — 
They'd  git  as  rich  as  Moses  on  a  half  of  what 

we  pay. 
I   haven't   seen  the   papers,   but   I   jedge  this 

Bower  war 
Is  a-raisin'  Ned  with  prices — they  are  wust  I 

ever  saw. 


ii4  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

I  was  figg'rin'  t'other  ev'nin'  what  I'd  bought, 

-by  Jim,  I'll  bet 
That  a  few  more  pairs  o'larrigans  will  fetch  me 

out  in  debt. 
For  I've  knowed  a  stiddy  worker  to  go  out  as 

poor's  a  tramp 
'Cause  he  traded  som'at  reg'lar  at  the  com- 

p'ny's  wangan  camp. 

The  wangan  camp! 

The  ivangan  camp! 

They  tuck  it  to  you  solid  at  the  wangan 
camp. 

PLUG  TOBACCO  AT  SOURDNAHUNK 

Now  just  for  a  moment  I'll  let  the  machine, 
Grind  lyrical  praise  of  the  base  nicotine. 
— An  ode  of  a  sort  of  a  commonplace  stripe 
Addressed  to  plebeian  cut-plug  and  the  pipe. 
Oh,  answer  me  now,  gentle  friends  of  the  line, 
Who    have    sought    the   blest    haunts    of    the 

spruce  and  the  pine, 
Have  you  found  in  the  woods  that  a  fragrant 

cigar 
Tastes  worse  than  an  elm-root  slopped  over 

with  tar? 
Queer  thing,  that,  my  friend,  but  it's  none  the 

less  true, 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP  115 

— This  quirk  of  tobacco — I'll  leave  it  to  you ! 
But  there's  savor  in  wreaths  from  the  brier  and 

cob, 

In  the  depths  of  the  forest  afar  from  the  mob; 
And  an  incense  that's  sweet  to  ecstatic  degree 
Curls  up  from  the  bowl  of  the  ancient  T.  D. 
While   choicest   Perfectos   smell    ranker   than 

punk 
In  the  shade  of  the  hemlocks  of  Sourdnahunk. 

Ah,  here  do  the  tables  most  wondrously  turn ! 
The  city  olfactories  sniff  if  you  burn 
Aught  else  than  the  finest  Havana  in  rolls; 
Folks  turn  up  their  noses  at  cut-plug  in  bowls ; 
You  may  roam  where  you  like  with  the  base 

cigarette 
But  you  can't  smoke  your  pipe  in  the  house, 

now  you  bet. 
For  curtains  and  pictures  and  hangings  and 

lace 

All  flutter  rebukingly  there  in  your  face; 
And  wife  and  the  daughters  and  neighbors  all 

cough 
And  wish  that  the  pipe-smoking  man  would 

break  off. 

But  ah,  gentle  fisher,  the  woods  shout  to  thee, 
With  fervent  request  that  you  bring  the  T.  D. 
For  the  reek  that  the  flavored  tobacco  roll  pours 


n6  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


Belongs   back   in   town  and   not   here   out-of- 
doors. 
Leave   there   city   manners,    creased    trousers, 

your  "  job," 

Bring  here  to  the  woods  your  tobacco  and  cob, 
The  hemlocks  above  you  will  tenderly  sigh 
As  the  incense  from  pipe  bowls  drifts  past  to 

the  sky. 

Ah,  human  magician,  the  secret  is  yours ! 
Would  you  work  mystic  charms  in  the  world 

out-of-doors  ? 

Take  you  the  alembic  of  chastened  brown  bowl, 
Touch  fire — and  visions  will  comfort  your  soul, 
As  you  gaze  out  at  Life  through  the  wreaths 

from  a  junk 
Of  good  plug  tobacco  at  Sourdnahunk. 

O'CONNOR  FROM  THE  DRIVE 

Men  who  plough  the  sea,  spend  they  may — and 

free! 
But  nowhere  is  there  prodigal  among  those 

careless  Jacks, 
Who  will  toss  the  hard-won  spoil  of  a  year  of 

lusty  toil, 

Like  the  Prodigals  of  Pick-pole  and  the  Ish- 
maels  of  the  Axe. 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP   117 

You  could  hear  him  when  he  started  from  the 

Rapogenus  Chutes, 
You  could  hear  the  cronching-cranching  of  his 

swashing,  spike-sole  boots, 
You  could  even  hear  the  colors  in  the  flannel 

shirt  he  wore, 
And   the    forest    fairly    shivered   at   the   way 

O'Connor  swore. 
'Twas  averred  that  in  the  city,  full  a  hundred 

miles  away, 
They  felt  a  little  tremor  when  O'Connor  drew 

his  pay. 

Though  he  drew  it  miles  away, 
When  O'Connor  drew  his  pay, 
The  people  in  the  city  felt  the  shock  of  it  that 

day. 

And  they  said  in  deepest  gloom, 
"  The  drive  is  in  the  boom, 
And  O'Connor's  drawn  his  wages;    clear  the 

track  and  give  him  room." 

He  rode  two  giant  spruces  thro'  the  smother  of 

the  Chutes, 
He  rode  them,  standing  straddled,  shod  and 

spurred  in  spike-sole  boots; 
And  just  for  exhibition,  when  he  struck  Che- 

suncook  Rip 


ii8  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  rolled  the  logs  and  ran  them  with  never 

miss  or  slip. 
For  a  dozen  miles  thro'  rapids  did  he  balance 

on  one  log, 
And  he  shot  the  Big  Seboomook  at  a  mighty 

lively  jog. 

He  reached  Megantic  Landing  where  he  nim 
bly  leaped  ashore, 

And  he  bought  some  liquid  fire  at  the  Bemis 
wangan  store. 

For,  O'Connor'd  drawn  his  pay, 
He  was   then   upon  his  way 
For  a  little  relaxation  and  a  day  or  two  of  play. 
The  drive  was  in  the  boom, 
Safely  past  Seboois  flume, 
And  all  O'Connor  wanted  was  rum  enough — 
and  room. 

O'Connor  owned  the  steamboat  from  Megantic 

to  the  Cove: 
Whatever   there   was    stavable,    he    forthwith 

calmly  stove. 
He    larruped    crew    and    captain    when    they 

wouldn't  let  him  steer, 
Sat  down  upon  the  smoke-stack — smoked  out 

the  engineer. 
Of  course  he  was  arrested  when  the  steamer 

got  to  shore; 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP   119 

A  justice  fined  O'Connor  and  he  paid  the  fine 
— and  more! 

He  had  drawn  his  season's  pay, 
He  had  cash  to  throw  away, 
He  had  cash  to  burn!     O'Connor'd  spurn  for 
clemency  to  pray. 

The  drive  was  safely  down, 
He  was  on  his  way  to  town ; 
He  was  doing  up  the  section  and  proposed  to 
do  it  brown. 

O'Connor  owned  the  railroad,  as  O'Connor'd 

owned  the  craft. 
He  cronched  from   rear  to    engine,    and    he 

chaffed  and  quaffed  and  laughed. 
He  smashed  the  plate-glass  windows,  for  he 

didn't  like  the  styles. 
He    smashed  and  promptly  settled  for  a  dozen 

stove-pipe  tiles ; 
They  took  him  into  limbo  right  and  left  along 

the  line, 
He  pulled  his  roll  and  willingly  kept  peeling  off 

his  fine. 

With  his  portly  wad  of  pay 
He  paved  his  genial  way, 
He'd  had  no  chance  to  spend  it  on  the  far-off 

Brass-u-a. 


120          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

But  now  the  drive  was  in, 
As  he'd  neither  kith  nor  kin, 
There    seemed    no    special    reason    why    he 
shouldn't  throw  his  tin. 

O'Connor  reached  the  city  and  he  reached  it 
with  a  jar, 

He  had  piled  up  all  the  cushions  in  the  center 
of  the  car. 

— Had  set  them  all  on  fire,  and  around  the  blaz 
ing  pile 

He  was  dancing  "  dingle  breakdowns  "   in  a 
very  jovial  style. 

And  before  they  got  him  cornered  they  had 
rung  in  three  alarms, 

And  it  took  the  whole  department  to  tie  his 
legs  and  arms. 

He  had  spent  his  last  lone  copper,  but  they  sold 
his  spike-sole  boots 

For  enough  to  pay  his  freightage  back  to  Rapo- 
genus  Chutes. 
They  put  him  in  a  crate, 
And  they  shipped  him  back  by  freight, 

To  commence  his  year  of  chopping  up  in  Town 
ship  Number  Eight. 

And  earnestly  he  swore, 

When  they  dumped  him  on  the  shore, 


BALLADS  OF  DRIVE  AND  CAMP  121 

He  had  never  spent  his  wages  quite  so  pleas- 
urably  before. 

Men  who  plough  the  sea,  spend  they  may — and 

free! 
But  nowhere  is  there  prodigal  among  those 

careless  Jacks, 
Who  will  toss  the  hard-won  spoil  of  a  year  of 

lusty  toil, 

Like  the  Prodigals  of  Pick-pole  and  the  Ish- 
maels  of  the  Axe. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE 

BALLAD  OF  OZY  B.  ORR 

Here's  a  plain  and  straight  story  of  Ozy  B. 

Orr— 

A  ballad  unvarnished,  but  practical,  for 
It  tells  how  the  critter  he  wouldn't  lie  down 
When  a  Hoodoo  had  reckoned  to  do  him  up 

brown. 

It  shows  how  a  Yankee  alights  on  his  feet 
When   folks   looking  on  have  concluded  he's 

beat. 

Now  Ozy  had  money  and  owned  a  good  farm 
And  matters  were  working  all  right  to  a  charm. 
When  he  "  went  on  "  some  papers  to  help  his 

son  Bill 

Who  was  all  tangled  up  in  a  dowel-stock  mill. 
Now  Bill  was  a  quitter,  and  therefore  one  day 
Those  notes  became  due  and  his  dad  had  to  pay. 
So  he  slapped  on  a  mortgage  and  then  buckled 

down 

To  pay  up  the  int'rest  and  keep  off  the  town. 
Oh,  that  mortgage,  it  clung  like  a  sheep-tick  in 

wool, 
And  the  more  she  sagged  back,  harder  Ozy 

would  pull; 

122 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         123 

But  a  mortgage  can  tucker  the  likeliest  man, 
And  Ozy  he  found  himself  flat  on  hard  pan. 
He  dumped  in  his  stock  and  his  grain  and  his 

hay, 
He  scrimped  and  he  skived  and  endeavored  to 

pay; 

He  sold  off  his  hay  and  his  grain  and  his  stock 
Till  the  ricky-tick-tack  of  the  auctioneer's  knock 
Kept  up  such  a  rapping  on  Ozy's  old  farm 
That  the  auctioneer  nigh  had  a  kink  in  his 

arm — 
And  it  happened  at  last,  'long  o'  Thanksgiving 

time, 

Old  Ozy  was  stripped  to  his  very  last  dime. 
And  he  said  to  his  helpmeet :   "  Poor  mummy, 

I  van 

I  guess  them  'ere  critters  have  got  all  they  can. 
For  they've  sued  off  the  stock  till  the  barns 

are  all  bare, 
'Cept    the    old    turkey-gobbler,    a-peckin'    out 

there ; 
They'd  'a'  lifted  him,  too,  for  those  lawyers  are 

rough, 
But  they  reckoned  that  gobbler  was  rather  too 

tough. 
So  they've  left  us  our  dinner  for  Thanksgivin' 

Day; 


124  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Just   remember  that,   mummy,   to-night  when 

you  pray. 
Now  chirk  up  your  appetite,  for,  with  God's 

grace, 
We'll  eat  all  at  once  all  the  stock  on  the  place." 

But  Ozy  he  was  a  cheerful  man, 

A  goodly  man,  a  godly  man — 
He  didn't  repine  at  Heaven's  plan,  but  he  took 

things  as  they  came; 
And  cheerfully  soon  he  whistled  his  tune 

That   he   always   whistled — 'twas    Old   Zip 

Coon, 
And  he  whistled  it  all  the  afternoon  with  never 

a  word  of  blame. 

While  all  unaware  of  his  owner's  care, 
The  gobbler  pecked  in  the  sunshine  there, 
With  a  tip-toe,  tip-toe  Nancy  air,  and  ruffled 

like  dancing  dame; 
Till  it  seemed  to  Ozy,  whistling  still 

To  the  ripity-rap  of  the  turkey's  bill, 
That  the  prim  old  gobbler  was  keeping  time 
To  the  sweep  and  the  swing  of  the  wordless 

rhyme : 
Pickety-peck, 
With  arching  neck, 
The  turkey  strutted  with  bow  and  beck. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         125 

And  a  Yankee  notion  was  thereby  born 
To  Ozy  Orr  ere  another  morn. 

A  practical  fellow  was  Ozy  B.  Orr, 
As  keen  an  old  Yankee  as  ever  you  saw 
A  bit  of  a  platform  he  made  out  of  tin, 
With  a  chance  for  a  kerosene  lantern  within; 
He  took  his  old  fiddle  and  rosined  the  bow 
And  took  the  old  turkey — and  there  was  his 

show ! 
You  don't  understand?     Well,  I'll  own  up  to 

you 
The  crowds  that  he  gathered  were  mystified, 

too. 

For  he  advertised  there  on  'his  banner  unfurled 
"  A    Jig-dancing    Turkey — Sole    one    in    the 

World." 
And  the  more  the  folks  saw  it,  the  more  and 

the  more 
They  flocked  with   their   dimes,   and   jammed 

at  the  door; 

For  it  really  did  seem  that  precocious  old  bird 
At  sound  of  the  fiddle  was  wondrously  stirred. 
In  stateliest  fashion  the  dance  would  commence, 
Then  faster  and  faster,  with  fervor  intense, 
Until,  at  the  end,  with  a  shriek  of  the  strings 
And  a  furious  gobble  and  whirlwind  of  wings, 


126  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

The  turkey  would  side-step  and  two-step  and 

spin, 

Then  larrup  with  ardor  that  echoing  tin. 
And  widely  renowned,  and  regarded  with  awe, 
Was  the  "  Great  Dancing  Turkey  of  Ozy  B. 

Orr." 
And  the  mortgage  was  paid  by  the  old  gobbler's 

legs- 
Now  Ozy  is  heading  up  money  in  kegs. 

He  would  calmly  tuck  beneath  his  chin 
The  bulge  of  his  cracked  old  violin, 
He  sawed  while  the  turkey  whacked  the  tin, 

the  people  they  paid  and  came; 
For  swift  and  soon  to  the  lilting  tune, 

When  he  fiddled  the  measure  of  Old  Zip 

Coon, 
The  gobbler  would  whirl  in  a  rigadoon — or 

something  about  the  same! 
While  under  the  tin,  tucked  snugly  in, 

Was  the  worthless  Bill,  that  brand  of  Sin; 
And  'twas  Bill  that  made  the  turkey  spin  with 

the  tip  of  the  lantern  flame; 
For,  as  ever  and  ever  the  tin  grew  hot 
The  turkey  made  haste  for  to  leave  that  spot, 
Till  it  seemed  that  the  gobbler  was  keeping  time 
To  the   sweep  and  the  swing  of  the  fiddle's 

rhyme. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         127 

Pickety-peck, 

With  snapping  neck, 

The  gobbler  gamboled  with  bow  and  beck! 
Does  a  notion  pay  ?     It  doth — it  doth ! 
Just  reckon  what  O.  B.  Orr  is  "  wuth." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  "  OLD  SCRATCH  " 

They  have  always  called  him  "  Scratchy,"  Ezry 

"  Scratch  "  and  "  Uncle  Scratch," 
Since  the  time  !he  cut  that  ding-do  in  a  certain 

wrasslin'  match; 
'Twas  a  pesky  scaly  caper;   he  deserved  to  get 

the  name 
— If  he  lives  to  be  a  hundred  he  will  carry  it 

the  same. 

He  had  vummed  that  he  could  wallop  any  feller 

in  the  place, 
He  allowed  that  as  a  wrassler  he  could  sort  of 

set  the  pace, 
And  he  bragged  so  much  about  it  that  at  last 

we  came  to  think. 
If  he'd  lived  in  time  o'  Samson — could  have 

downed  Sam  quick's  a  wink. 
And  there  wasn't  nary  feller  in  the  town  nor 

round  about 


128  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Who  had  grit  or  grab  or  gumption  to  take  holt 

and  shake  him  out. 
And  he  set  around  the  gros'ry  keepin'  up  his 

steady  clack 
That  there  never  was  a  feller  who  could  put 

him  on  his  back. 
So  it  went  till  Penley  Peaslee's  oldest  boy  came 

home  from  school 

— And  I  tell  you  that's  a  shaver  that  ain't  any 
body's  fool — ! 
He  ain't  tall  nor  big  nor  husky  and  he  isn't 

very  stout, 
But  he's  nimble  as  a  cricket  and  as  spry  as  all 

git  out! 
Well,  he  heard  old  Ezry  braggin'  and  at  last 

as  cool's  could  be 
Boy  says,  "  Uncle,  shed  your  weskit;    I  will 

take  your  stump,"  says  he. 
Guess  'twas  jest  about  a  minute  'fore  old  Ezry 

got  his  breath, 
Then   says   he,    "  Scat   on   ye,    youngster !     I 

should  squat  ye  ha'f  to  death. 
What    ye    think    ye    know    'bout    wrasslin'? 

S'pose  I'm  go'n'  to  fool  with  boys  ?  " 
But  the  crowd  commenced  to  hoot  him  and  they 

made  sech  pesky  noise 
That  at  last  they  got  him  swearing  and  he 

shed  his  coat  and  vest 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         129 

And  commenced  to  stretch  his  muscles  and  to 

pound  against  his  breast. 
"  S'pose  I've  got  to  if  ye  say  so,"  says  he  scorn 
ful  as  ye  please, 
"  But  I'll  throw  that  little  shaver,  one  hand 

tied  and  on  my  knees. 
I  can  slat  him  galley-endways  and  not  use  one- 

ha'f  my  strength. 
What  ye  want  bub?     Take  your  ch'ice  now; 

side  holts,  back  holts,  or  arm's  length  ? 
Collar'n  elbow  if  ye  say  so.     Name  yer  pizen! 

Take  your  pick !  " 
"  Suit    yourself,"    the    youngster    answered; 

"  long's  ye  git  to  business  quick." 
As  I've  said  the  boy  warn't  heavy; — he  was 

spry,  though,  quicker'n  scat, 
And  he  had  old  Ezry  spinnin'  'fore  he  knew 

where  he  was  at ; 
Hooked  him  solid,  give  a  twister,  doubled  up 

the  old  gent's  back 
And  Ez  tumbled  like  a  chimbly — smooth  and 

solid  and  ker-whack! 

Well,  he  lay  there  stunned  and  breathless  with 

his  mouth  jam-full  o'  dirt 
And  his  both  hands  full  o'  gingham,  for  he  had 

the  youngster's  shirt. 


I3o  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

When  the  crowd  commenced  to  holler  as  he 
staid  there  on  the  ground 

Grocer  Weaver's  old  black  tom-cat  came  on  tip 
toe  sniffin'  round. 

He  was  just  a-gettin'  ready  for  to  gnaw  off 
Ezry's  nose 

When  the  old  man  got  his  senses  and  he  sud 
denly  arose. 

Then  he  grabbed  that  old  black  tom-cat  good 
and  solid  by  the  tail 

And  commenced  to  welt  the  youngster  just  as 
hard  as  he  could  whale. 

Ev'ry  time  he  reached  and  raked  him  on  that 
bare  white  back  of  his — 

Ow!  them  claws  they  grabbed  in  dretful  and 
they  hurt  him — ah,  gee  whiz ! 

There  were  howls  and  yowls  and  spittin's;  it 
was  rip  and  slit  and  tear, 

And  the  air  was  full  of  tom-cat  and  of  flyin' 
skin  and  hair. 

Final  clip  that  Ezry  hit  him  it  was  such  a 
tarnal  clout 

That  the  cat  he  stuck  on  solid  till  they  pried 
his  toe-nails  out. 

So  they've  always  called  him  "  Scratchy  "  Ezry 
"  Scratch  "  and  "  Uncle  Scratch." 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         131 

Since  the  time  he  cut  that  ding-do  in  a  certain 

wrasslin'  match; 
'Twas  a  pesky  scaly  caper;    he  deserved  to  get 

the  name, 
— If  he  lives  to  be  a  hundred  he  will  carry  it 

the  same. 


WHEN  'LISH  PLAYED  OX 

Grouty  and  gruff, 

Profane  and  rough, 
Old  'Lish  Henderson  slammed  through  life; 

Swore  at  his  workers, 

— Both  honest  and  shirkers, 
Threatened  his  children  and  raved  at  his  wife. 
Yes,  'Lish  was  a  waspish  and  churlish  old  man, 
Who  was  certainly  built  on  a  porcupine  plan, 
In  all  of  the  section  there  couldn't  be  found 
A  neighbor  whom  Henderson  hadn't  "  stood 

'round." 
And  the  men  that  he  hired  surveyed  him  with 

awe 

And  cowered  whenever  he  flourished  his  jaw. 
Till  it  came  to  the  time  that  he  hired  John  Gile, 
A  brawny   six-footer   from   Prince   Edward's 

Isle. 
He  wanted  a  teamster,  old  Henderson  did, 


132  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  a  number  of  candidates  offered  a  bid, 

But  his  puffy  red  face  and  the  glare  in  his  eyes, 

And  his  thunderous  tones  and  his  ominous  size 

And  the  wealth  of  his  language  embarrassed 
them  so 

Their  fright  made  them  foolish ; — he  told  them 
to  go. 

And  then,  gaunt  and  shambling,  with  good- 
natured  smile, 

Came  bashfully  forward  the  giant  John  Gile. 

"  Have  ye  ever  driv'  oxen  ?  "  old  Henderson 
roared. 

Gile  said  he  could  tell  the  brad-end  of  a  goad. 

Then  Henderson  grinned  at  the  crowd  stand 
ing  'round 

And  he  dropped  to  his  hands  and  his  knees  on 
the  ground. 

"  Here,  fellow,"  he  bellowed,  "  you  take  that 
'ere  gad, 

Just  imagine  I'm  oxen;  now  drive  me,  my 
lad. 

Just  give  me  some  samples  of  handlin'  the  stick, 

I  can  tell  if  I  want  ye  and  tell  ye  blame  quick." 

Gile  fingered  the  goad  hesitatingly,  then 
As  he  saw  Uncle  'Lish  grinning  up  at  the  men 
Who  were  eyeing  the  trial,  said,   "  Mister,  I 
swan, 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         133 

'Tain't  fair  on  a  feller — this  teamin'  a  man." 
"  I'm  oxen — I'm  oxen,"  old  Henderson  cried, 
"  Git  onto  your  job  or  git  out  an'  go  hide." 

Then  Gile  held  the  goad-stick  in  uncertain  pose 
And  gingerly   swished   it  near  Uncle   'Lish's 

nose. 
"Wo  hysh,"  he  said  gently;    "gee  up,  there, 

old  Bright! 

Wo  hysh — wo,  wo,  hysh," — but  with  mischiev 
ous  light 

In  his  beady  old  eyes  Uncle  'Lish  never  stirred 
And  the  language  he  used  was  the  worst  ever 

heard. 
"  Why,  drat  ye,"  he  roared  "  hain't  ye  got  no 

more  sprawl 
Than  a  five  year  old  girl?    Why,  ye  might  as 

well  call 
Your  team   '  Mister  Oxen,'  and  say  to  'em, 

'please!'" 
And   then   Uncle   'Lish   settled   down   on  his 

knees. 
And  he  snapped,  "  Hain't  ye  grit  enough,  man, 

to  say  scat  ? 

Ye'll  never  git  anywhere,  drivin'  like  that. 
I'll  tell  ye  right  now  that  the  oxen  I  own 
Hain't  driven  like  kittens ;  they  don't  go  alone, 


134  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

There's  pepper-sass  in  'em — they're  r'arin'  an' 

hot, 

An'  I — I'm  the  r'arin'est  ox  in  the  lot." 
Then  Uncle  'Lish  Henderson  lowered  his  head 
And  bellowed  and  snorted.     John  Gile  calmly 

said, 
"  Of  course — oh,  of  course  in  a  case  such  as 

that—" 
He  threw  out  his  quid  and  he  threw  down  his 

hat, 
Jumped  up,  cracked  his  lieels,  danced  around 

Uncle  'Lish 

And  yelled  like  a  maniac,  "  Blast  ye,  wo  hysh !  " 
Ere  Uncle  'Lish  Henderson  knew  what  was 

what 

His  teeth  fairly  chattered,  he  got  such  a  swat 
From    that    vicious    ash    stick — though    that 

wasn't  as  bad 

As  when  the  man  gave  him  two  inches  of  brad, 
— Just  jabbed  it  with  all  of  his  two-handed 

might, 
"  Wo,  haw,  there,"  he  shouted,  "  gee  up  there, 

old  Bright!" 
Well,    Uncle   'Lish   gee-ed — there's   no   doubt 

about  that — 

Went  into  the  air  and  he  squalled  like  a  cat, 
Made  a  swing  and  a  swoop  at  that  man  in  a 

style 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         135 

That  would  show  he  proposed  to  annihilate 

Gile. 
But  Gile  clinched  the  goad-stick  and  hit  him  a 

whack 

On  the  bridge  of  his  nose — sent  him  staggering- 
back, 
And  he  reeled  and  he  gasped  and  he  sunk  on 

his  knee, 
"Dad-rat  ye,"  yelled  Gile,   "don't  ye  try  to 

hook  me ! 
Gee  up,  there — go  'long  there;   wo  haw  an'  wo 

hysh !  " 

And  again  did  he  bury  that  brad  in  old  'Lish, 
Then  he  lammed  and  he  basted  him,  steady  and 

hard, 
He  chased  and  he  bradded  him  all  'round  the 

yard, 
Till  'Lish  fairly  screamed,  as  he  dodged  like  a 

fox, 
"  For  heaven's  sake,  stranger,  let's  play  I  hain't 

ox." 
Gile  bashfully  stammered,  "  Why,  'course  ye 

are  not ! 
But  ye'll  have  to  excuse  me — I  sort  o'  forgot !  " 

With  a  twisted  smile 
'Lish  looked  at  Gile, 


136          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Then  he  lifted  one  hand  from  the  place  where 
he  smarted; 

And  he  held  it  out, 
— Gripped  good  and  stout, 
"  Ye're    hired,"    said    he;      "  I    reckin    I'm 
started ! " 


OLD  "  TEN  PER  CENT  " 

His  mouth  is  pooched  and  solemn  and  he'll 

never  squeeze  a  smile, 

He's  yeller  'ern  saffron  bitters  'cause  he's  col 
ored  so  by  bile; 
No  organ  in  his  system  seems  to  run  the  way 

it  should, 
— He  never  has  a  hearty  shake  or  says  a  word 

of  good. 
He'll  soften,  though,  a  crumb  or  so  if  money's 

to  be  lent 
And  some  poor  strugglin'  devil  comes  to  time 

with  ten  per  cent. 
He  is  flingin'  and  is  dingin'  first  at  this  and 

then  at  that, 
And  to  ev'ry  reputation  gives  a  cuff  or  kick  or 

slat; 
Pretty  lately  he  was  spewin'  sland'rous  gossip 

he  had  heard, 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         137 

And  our  minister  was  passin'.     Wai,  the  elder 

he  was  stirred 
And  he  says,  "  Ah,  Brother  Bowler,  if  you'd 

lived  in  Jesus'  time 
When  they  brought  to  him  the  woman  whom 

they'd  taken  in  her  crime, 
That  story  in  the  Scriptures  would  have  took 

a  diff'rent  tone, 
For  I  s'picion  if  you'd  been  there  you'd  'a'  up 

and  thrown  the  stone. 
Yes,  I  reckon  that  the  woman  would  have  sartin 

been  a  goner, 
For  you'd  thrown  the  rock — and  that  hain't 

all !  You'd  'a'  thrown  one  with  a  corner !  " 
Wai,  ye'd  think  a  dig  of  that  sort  would  have 

shamed  him  ha'f  to  death, 
But,  Land  o'  Goshen,  neighbor, — hain't  no  mor- 

tifyin'  Seth! 

— Jest  a  waste  of  breath 
To  jab  at  Uncle  Seth, 
He's  holler  where  the  soul  should  be — hain't 

got  no  human  peth. 
He's  deef  to  ev'ry  cry  of  want  and  don't  know 

what  is  meant, 
But — bet  he'll  hear  for  ha'f  a  mile  the  whisper, 

"  Ten  per  cent !  " 


138          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

It  took  a  lot  of  practicin'  to  work  his  hearin' 

down 
To  where  he's  never  bothered  by  the  troubles  in 

our  town. 
He  never  hears  the  sorrows  of  some  woman 

who  is  left 
With  orphans  and  a  morgidge  'bout  a  thousand 

times  her  heft. 
He  hain't  the  one  that  worries  when  she  says 

she  cannot  pay, 
The  morgidge  holds  her  anchored — the  farm 

can't  git  away. 
Upon  the  shattered  door-steps  of  his   racked 

old  tenements 
He  crowds  the  wolf  of  hunger  when  he  goes 

to  git  his  rents. 
But  he  never  hears  the  wailin'  of  the  troubled 

folks  within, 
He  simply  wants  his  money  and  'tis  tenant,  trot 

or  tin ! 
He  never  hears  entreaties  of  his  neighbors  in 

the  lurch 
Unless  there's  good  endorsers.     He  never  hears 

the  church, 
He  never  hears  the  knockin'  of  a  fist  upon  his 

door 
Unless  he  knows  the  thuddin'  means  his  ten 

per  cent — or  more. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         139 

(His   auditory  organs   sense  no  waves   from 

wails  of  sorrow 
But  they  hear  the  faintest  zephyr  from  the  man 

who  wants  to  borrow.) 
Now,  with  ears  in  that  condition,  when  they're 

extry  dulled  by  death, 
On  the  Resurrection  mornin'  I'll  have  fears  for 

Uncle  Seth. 

When  Gab'rel  toots  his  trump 
And  risen  spirits  jump, 
And  up  before  the  Throne  of  Light  forthwith 

proceed  to  hump, 
I  reckin  Seth  will  slumber  on,  not  knowin'  what 

is  meant 

'Cause  Gab'rel  won't  take  'special  pains  to  hol 
ler,  "  Ten  per  cent !  " 


He  could  tell  ye  what  he'd  done, 
— He  was  eloquent,  my  son, 
In  puttin'  all  his  doin's  into  mighty  lively  talk. 
But  I've  follered  him  around, 
And,  by  gosh,  I  never  found 
That  he  ever  lifted  hard  enough  to 
Bust 

His 

Fork! 


140  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  was  always  full  o'  brag 

'Bout  how  he  could  lift  a  jag 

That  would  double  up  a  hossfork  and  make 

the  horses  balk. 
But  I  never  see'd  no  signs 
That  he  ever  bent  the  tines 
Or  ever  bruk'  the  handle  of  his 
Old 

Pitch 

Fork! 


MEAN  SAM  GREEN 

Old  Sam  Green ! 

What?     Mean? 
I  reckin  that  a  meaner  man  was  skercely  ever 

seen. 
People  said  he'd  skin  a  fly  for  sake  of  hide  an' 

grease; 
He  wouldn't  grin — it  stretched  the  skin,  an' 

he  begredged  the  crease. 
Sort  o'   squirmed  when  asked  to  set — didn't 

want  the  chance! 
We  wondered  why;    we  found  at  last  'twas 

jest  to  save  his  pants. 
Never  used  to  shave  himself,  never  combed  his 

hair; 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         141 

Used  to  sort  o'  hate  to  wash,  account  o'  wear 

and  tear. 
Never  beau-ed  the  wimmen  'round,  never  spent 

a  cent, 
'Cept  the  time  he  bought  a  girl  an  ounce  of 

pepperment. 
Allus  kind  o'  groaned  o'  that;   said  the  dratted 

dunce 
Set  an'  chawnked  an'  chawnked  an'  chawnked 

an'  et  it  all  to  once. 
Said  he  learned  a  lesson  then  to  last  him  all 

through  life; 
Said  'twould  take  a  millionaire  to  feed  a  hearty 

wife. 
So  he  planned  an'  worked  an'  saved  an'  grubbed 

his  little  patch, 
Allowed  he'd  ruther  plug  along,  jest  like  he 

was,  "  old  bach." 
Sam,  though,  shifted  later  on — the  pesky  mean     ^ 

old  goat — 

He  struck  a  find;    she'd  had  a  shock  that  par 
alyzed  her  throat ! 
Still,    she   worked   most   dretful   spry — didn't 

need  no  spurs — 
Only  "  out "  that  woman  had  was  that  'ere 

throat  of  hers. 
Married  her  ?  you  bet  he  did !     Straight — right 

off  the  reel! 


142  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Reckoned  that  she  couldn't  eat  a  reel,  good 

hearty  meal. 
Figgered  he'd  git  lots  of  work  an'  only  feed  her 

slim; 
Wife,  though,  wopsed  it  t'other  way  an'  got 

the  laugh  on  him ! 
I  reckin  that  a  madder  man  was  skercely  ever 

seen, 

Than  Green, 

Old  mean  Sam  Green. 

Soon's  she  fairly  placed  her  feet,  she  called  the 

doctors  in, 
An'  they  commenced  to  work  on  her  an'  tap 

old  Green  for  tin. 
He  swore  an'  howled,  but  she  was  boss — she 

run  the  whole  concern- 
She  said  she'd  morgidge  all  he  owned  to  cure 

that  throat  of  her'n. 
The   high-priced   doctors    far   an'    near   come 

hustlin'  to  the  place, 
An'  fubbed  an'  fussed  an'  then  discussed  that 

reely  puzzlin'  case. 
An'  each  performed  his  little  stunt  with  all  his 

skill  an'  will, 
An'  said  that  time  would  do  the  rest — an'  then 

put  in  his  bill. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         143 

Wai,  Land  o'  Goshen,  Sam  took  on  as  though 

they  drawecl  his  blood. 
He'd  hitch  and  hunch  his  wallet  out  as  though 

'twas  stuck  in  mud. 
Their  miss  was  quite  a  hand  to  tog;    she  used 

to  say  to  us 
She  wished  that  corsets  laced  as  tight's  the 

straps  on  that  old  puss. 
Mis'   Green  at  last  got  down  reel  slim;   one 

night — so  nuss,  she  said, 
Old  Sam  come  creepin',  creakin'  in;    set  down 

'longside  the  bed. 
He  stooped  an'  poked  around  a  spell,  picked  up 

Lucindy's  shoe, 
An'  then — wal,  nuss  she  vums  an'  vows  this 

'ere  is  honest  true: 

He  routed  'round  the  fireplace  an'  got  a  cinder- 
coal, 
An'  went  to  figgerin'  up  expense,  right  there 

on  'Cindy's  sole. 
He  talked  the  items  right  out  loud,  but  'Cindy 

didn't  kick 
So  long's  he  only  reckoned  things  she'd  had 

while  she  was  sick. 
But   when    he    got    to   projickin'    'bout    what 

'twould  prob'ly  cost 
To  bury  her  in  decent  shape,  he  sort  o'  up  an' 

crossed 


144          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

The  "  mean-man  "  line,  the  "  tarnal  mean  "  an' 

even  "  gaul-durned  mean  " — 
He  formed  a  brand-new  class  himself;    jest 
him  alone,  Sam  Green, 
Stands  serene! 

"  Green  mean," 

Signifies  the  meanest  man  that  ever  ye  have 
seen. 

Die?     What!     'Cindy  up  an'  die?     You  bet 

she  didn't  die! 
Got  _  so  mad  to  hear  him  talk  she  flew  right  up 

sky-high. 
Hopped  like  sixty  out  o'bed,  as  hearty's  Paddy's 

goat, 
An'  that  'ere  kink — whatever  'twas — it  came 

right  out  her  throat. 
An'  talk?     She  hadn't  talked  for  years,  but 

soon's  she  got  her  breath, 
I  swan  to  man,  I  reely  b'lieve  she  talked  old 

Green  to  death. 
For  'fore  she'd  trod  around  enough  to  wear  the 

coal  marks  out, 
Old  Sam  curled  up  an'  passed  away.     Some 

said  there  wa'n't  much  doubt 
He'd  reely  died  two  years  before,  but  hadn't 

let  folks  know, 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE          145 

Because  these  undertakin'  chaps  tuck  on  ex 
penses  so. 

Perk  Todd  was  tellin'  down  t'  the  store  he  had 

a  dream  las'  week — 
He  dreamed  he  got  in  Paradise!     Must  been 

a  denied  close'  squeak! 
Wai,  Perk  he  says  an  angel  there  was  showin' 

him  arcund, 
"  At  last,"  says  Perk,   "  I  ups  an'  asks  how 

'twas  I  hadn't  found 
No  people  there  from  where  I'd  lived.     The 

angel  says,  says  he : 
'  Here  bub !  '     A  cherub  scooted  up.     '  Go  git 

the  storehouse  key.' ' 
Says   Perk :     "  The   angel   took   me  in.     An' 

where  we  were,  it  'peared 
That  'bout  a  billion  boxed-up  things  was  there 

all  nicely  tiered. 

The  angel  said,  '  When  folks  on  earth  do  any 
thing  that's  small 
Their  souls  git  squizzled  bit  by  bit;   an'  when 

they  die,  then  all 
The  little,  teenty  souls  that  come  are  packed  in 

here,  ye  know, 
Jes'  same's  they  box  tomater  plants  to  giv'  'em 

time  to  grow.' 


146  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  hunted  'round  an'  found  a  box.     *  There/ 

finally  said  he, 
'  We've  got  about  as  sing'lar  thing  as  ever  ye 

will  see.' 
Inside  that  box  was  nested  clus'  a  dozen  boxes 

more; 
The  last  box  was  the  smallest  box  I  ever  saw 

before, 
An'  in  it  was  a  teenty  speck.     '  Is  that  a  soul  ?  ' 

says  I. 

'  Oh,  no,'  said  he,  '  the  thing  you  see's  the  eye 
brow  of  a  fly. 
You  couldn't  see  the  soul  that's  there,  to  save 

your  blessed  neck, 
Because    it's   one   ten-millionth    part   as   big's 

that  leetle  speck. 
In  fact  it  is  the  smallest  soul  that  we  have  ever 

seen; 
The  label  says  ' — he  squinted  hard — '  it's  one 

old  Sam'wel  Green.' 
All  serene, 

Sam  Green 
Is  ticketed  '  The  Limit;   Number  billion-umpty 

steen.'  " 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         147 

DICKERER  JIM 

That  Dickerer  Jim — Shenanigan  Jim. 

I  never  see'd  boss  jockey  equal  to  him. 

He'd  rather  swap  hosses  than  eat  a  good  meal, 

He'd  take  all  the  chances — and  Jim  wouldn't 
squeal ! 

He'd  talk  like  a  cyclone  on  any  old  skate 
—Take  a  wheezy  old  pelter  with  hopity  gait 

And  he'd  make  you  believe — would  that  Dick 
erer  Jim — 

There  were  all  kinds  of  pedigrees  tied  up  in 
him. 

And  you  bet  your  old  boots,  if  he  got  you  in 
range 

He  could  touch  you  all  right  for  a  sale  or  a 
"  change." 

— As  keen  as  a  brier,  as  sharp  as  a  knife 

He  never  got  phazed  except  once  in  his  life. 

And  that  was  a  corker,  by  ginger,  on  him, 

On  Dickerer  Jim — Shenanigan  Jim. 

He  loaded  a  breather — a  reg'lar  old  rip 
On  a  man  from  the  city — just  did  it  by  lip. 
Talked  the  man  dumb  and  silly  and  giv'  him  the 

hooks 
Till  the  chap  forked  his  money  just  simply  on 

looks. 


148  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  he  went  back  to  town  with  a  big  double 

cross 
In  the  shape  of  a  whoofity  plug  of  a  hoss. 

Jim — Jim, 

Shenanigan  Jim, 
Didn't  you — didn't  you  soak  it  to  him ! 

Jim — Jim, 

As  a  sample  of  "  trim  " 
That  feller  was  pruned  to  the  very  last  limb. 

Now  Dickerer  Jim — Shenanigan  Jim — 

Was  down  in  the  city.     His  eyesight  was  dim ; 

So  he  couldn't  keep  lookout,  and  first  thing  he 

knew 
Right  plumb  up  against  him  that  city  chap 

blew. 

He  recognized  Jim — Jim  hadn't  seen  him — 
Till  the  feller  grabbed  holt;    then  the  chances 

seemed  slim 

For  avoidin'  a  scrimmage,  for  seldom  is  seen 
A  chap  that's  so  mad  that  his  face  is  pea  green. 
But  his  tongue  wasn't  ready  as  quick  as  his 

sight; 
Now  Jim  couldn't  see,  yet  his  tongue  was  all 

right, 
And  away  he  went,    lickity-whizzle !      Talk, 

talk! 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         149 

While  the  feller  was  still  scoring  down  in  a 

balk 
With  his  mouth  propped  apart;   oh,  he'd  plenty 

to  say, 

But  Jim,  goin'  steady,  had  levelled  away. 
And  he  told  that  'ere  feller  he'd  hunted  for  him, 
• — Did  Dickerer  Jim — Shenanigan  Jim. 

The  feller  allowed  he'd  been  huntin'  some,  too, 
But     Jim     didn't     hesitate — slam-banged     it 

through ! 

Says  he,  "  I've  been  sorry  I  sold  you  that  hoss 
And  the  minit  I  sold  him  I  knew  'twas  a  loss. 
For  the  very  same  day  that  you  took  him  away 
I  met  with  a  chap  that  I  figger  will  pay 
A  clean  and  cool  hundred  above  what  you  giv', 
• — I  can  load  that  'ere  hoss  on  that  chap,  sure's 

you  live. 

That  feller  he  wants  him — he's  anxious  to  pay; 
Now  what  shall  I  say  to  him — what  shall  I 

say?" 
Then  the  sucker  he  tore  and  he  swore,  and  says 

he, 

"  Go  tell  him  the  same  blasted  lie  you  told  me ! 
He'll  buy,  don't  you  worry !     You'll  tag  him — 

he's  It, 
— That's  a  lie  you  can  never  improve  on  a  bit !  " 


150  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Jim — Jim, 

Shenanigan  Jim, 
That  was  a  side-windin'  answer  for  him. 

Jim — Jim, 

Jest  turned  and  he  "  dim'  ' 
For  he  see'd  there  warn't  stretch  in  the  chap's 
t'other  limb. 


BALLAD  OF  BENJAMIN  BRANN 

Oh,  a  positive  man — a  positive  man, 

So  the  people  discovered,  was  Benjamin  Brann. 

With  his  household  and  neighbors  and  children 
and  hoss 

Old  Brann  allowed  he  would  always  be  boss. 

And  the  most  of  the  people  they'd  ruther  kow 
tow 

To  his  notions  than  live  in  the  midst  of  a  row. 

And  whenever  you'd  see  in  a  faint-hearted 
crowd, 

A  man  who  was  hollerin'  'specially  loud, 

You  could  calculate  suttin  that  positive  man 

Was  the  uncontradicted  old  Benjamin  Brann. 

For  after  a  while  all  the  folks  stood  in  awe 

Of  the  roar  of  his  voice  and  the  build  of  his 
jaw; 

He  was  lookin'  for  trouble  and  carried  a  chip 


JUST  HUM  AX  NATURE         151 

And  chance  for  a  tussle  he  never  let  slip ; 
He  hated  to  think  that  the  world  could  still  go 
When  he  stood  at  one  side  and  kept  hollerin' 
"  whoa !  " 

One  day  he  was  teamin'  his  oxen  to  town; 

He   set  on   the  cart  tongue,   his   feet  hangin' 

down. 

And  bein'  a  positive  kind  of  a  chap, 
— Pokin'   out  o'   his   way   for   the   sake   of   a 

scrap — 

Whenever  he  noticed  a  boulder  or  stump 
He'd  gee,  and  ride  over  the  critter  ker-bump ! 
But    it    happened    one   boulder    that   he    came 

across 

Gave  Benjamin's  ox-cart  too  livelv  a  toss; 
He  was  under  the  broad-tired  wheels,  s'r,  before 
He'd  gathered  his  voice  for  his  usual  roar. 
But  just  as  the  ox-cart  rolled  over  him — oh, 
You'd  a-fallen  down   stunned   at  the   way   he 

yelled  "  whoa  !  " 
'Twas  so  loud  and  so  threat'nin'  that  Brindle 

and  Haw 
Who  bowed  to  that  voice  as  their  Gospel  and 

Law 
Were  so  eager  to  stop  that  they  backed,   s'r, 

and  then 
The  wheel  it  rolled  over  the  old  man  again. 


152  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

There's  a  moral  to  this  as  you  notice,  no  doubt, 
But  I  haven't  the  patience  to  ravel  it  out. 
I'll  say  to  reformers  and  dogmatists,  though, 
It's  safest  to  holler  a  moderate  "  whoa!  " 


THE  HEIRS 

They  hastened  to  the  funeral  when  Aunt  Sa- 
brina  died. 

Nephews,  nieces,  relatives — they  came  from 
far  and  wide. 

They  hurried  in  by  boat  and  train;  they  came 
by  stage  and  team, 

In  breasts  a  jealous  bitter  greed,  in  eyes  a  hun 
gry  gleam. 

I  knew  the  most  as  decent  men,  their  wives  as 
honest  dames, 

Who  in  the  common  run  of  things  were  careful 
of  their  names. 

And  yet,  alas,  we  sadly  find  that  many  who  be 
have 

As  cooing  doves  in  daily  life  are  buzzards  at 
the  grave. 

So  while  the  choir  softly  purred,  and  while  the 

parson  prayed, 
The  lids  of  mourning  eyes  were  raised   and 

sneaking  glances  strayed 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE          153 

From  old-style  clock  to  pantry  shelf,  from  par 
lor  set  to  rug, 

And  knitted  brows  weighed  soberly  how  much 
each  heir  could  lug. 

Anon  the  lustful  glances  crossed  and  scowl  re 
plied  to  scowl, 

And  spoke  as  plain  as  though  the  look  were 
voiced  in  sullen  growl : 

Thus  when  the  parson  prayed,  "  Oh,  Lord,  take 
Thou  this  way-worn  soul," 

I  caught  a  look  that  plainly  spoke :  "  I'll  take 
that  china  bowl." 

And  this  look  said,  "  I  speak  for  that,"  and 
that  look  spoke  for  this, 

The  while  the  parson  droned  of  love  and  told 
them  of  the  bliss 

That  cometh  after  struggles  here ;  "  The  peace 
of  rest,"  he  said, 

And  then  each  woman  claimed  through  looks 
her  aunt's  goose- feather  bed. 

'Twas  thus  the  kindred  flocked  to  town  when 
Aunt  Sabrina  died, 

Ostensibly  to  bury  her,  but  really  to  divide. 

No  will  was  left,  'twas  catch  as  can;  and  each 
and  every  heir, 

Came  in  with  desperate  intent  to  scoop  the  big 
gest  share. 


154          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

They  passed  around  with  creaking  shoes  and 

kissed  the  silent  lip, 
And  pressed  the  limp,  old,  withered  hand  from 

out  whose  jealous  grip 
The  goods  of  earth  had  slipped  away  to  heap  a 

funeral  pyre, 
A  tinder  pile  where  torch  of  Greed  would  start 

a  roaring  fire. 
They  rode  behind  in  solemn  show  and  stood 

around  the  grave, 
Until  the  coffin  sank  from  sight;  and  then  each 

jealous  knave 
Hopped  back  with  great  celerity  in  carriage  and 

in  hack, 
And  folks  who  saw  averred  those  heirs  raced 

horses  going  back. 

This  is  no  fairy  tale,  my  friend!     I'm  giving 

you  the  facts, 
'Tis   just  an   instance  where   the   heirs   came 

round  and  brought  an  axe; 
Where   folks   of   pretty   honest    stripe    could 

hardly  bear  to  wait 
To  decently  inter  the  corpse  ere  carving  the 

estate ; 
• — All  ready  at  the  prayer's  "  Amen  "  to  scratch 

and  haul  and  claw 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE          155 

With  nails  of  jealous  rancor  and  the  talons  of 
the  law. 

My  brother,  I've  a  notion,  that  it  is  sinful  pride 
When  we  pose  before  the  heathen  as  a  highly 

moral  guide. 
For  here  in  old  New  England  are  some  capers 

that  would — hush ! — 
This  is  strictly  on  the  quiet — put  a  savage  to 

the  blush. 

You  know  that  when  a  savage  leaves  his  rela 
tives  bereft, 

There  isn't  any  scrapping  over  what  the  heathen 
left. 

They  bury  all  his  queer  stone  tools,  his  arrows 
and  his  bow, 

They  stuff  his  pack  with  grub  for  snack;  put 
in  his  wampum  "  dough;  " 

They  kill  his  horse  and  slay  his  dog  and  then 
they  sing  a  song, 

And  kill  off  all  his  weeping  wives  and  send 
them  right  along. 

There's  no  annoying  probate  court,  no  long, 
litigious  fuss, 

No  lawyer's  fees,  no  family  row,  no  will-de 
stroying  cuss. 


156  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

The  estate  is  executed  in  a  brisk  and  thorough 
style 

And  though  some  certain  features  suit  all  right 
a  heathen  isle, 

Some  squeamish  person  might  arise  and  prop 
erly  complain 

There's  too  much  execution  for  adoption  here 
in  Maine. 

So  I'll  not  commend  the  custom,  yet  I  firmly 

will  abide 
In  the  notion  that  we  have  no  right  to  pose  as 

moral  guide 
To   the   heathen;     for   it's   evident,   untutored 

though  they  are. 
The  heirs  at  least  show  manners  in  Borrioboola 

Gha. 

A.  B.  APPLETON,  "  PIRUT  " 

Abbott  B.  Appleton  went  to  the  fair 

(Sing  hey!  for  the  wind  among  his  whiskers), 

Saw  curious   "  dewin's  "  while  he  was  down 

there 
'Mongst  the  gamblers,  the  sports  and  the  frisk- 

ers. 

He  carried  his  bills  in  a  wallet  laid  flat— 
An  old-fashioned  calf-skin  as  black  as  your  hat; 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         157 

He  was  feeling  so  well  he  was  easy  to  touch — 
Then  he  hadn't  as  much;    no,  there  wasn't  as 

much. 
He  noticed  a  crowd  'round  a  pleasant-faced 

man 

Whose  business  seemed  based  on  a  curious  plan ; 
He  asked  for  a  quarter  from  each  in  the  crowd, 
Put  the  coin  in  his  hat,  and  he  forthwith  al 
lowed 

That  simply  to  advertise  he  would  restore 
His   quarter   to   each,    adding   three    quarters 

more. 

Now  Abbott  B.  Appleton  he  did  invest — 
Anxious  to  share  in  these  spoils  with  the  rest. 
Man  asked  for  ten  dollars,  and  Abbott,  said  he : 
"  Why,  sartin !     And  then  we'll  git  thutty  back 
free." 

But   the   man   who   was   running   the   charity 

game 

Informed  him  it  didn't  work  always  the  same, 
And  Abbott  B.  Appleton  got  for  his  ten 
A  smile — and  the  man  didn't  play  it  again. 
Then  Abbott,  in  order  to  make  himself  square, 
Got  after  the  rest  of  the  snides  at  the  fair. 
He  hunted  the  pea,  but  he  never  could  tell 
When  "  the  darned  little  critter  "  was  under 

the  shell. 


158  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

He  shot  at  a  peg  with  a  big,  swinging  ball, 

Five  dollars  a  shot — didn't  hit  it  at  all. 

And   he   finally   found   himself    "  gone   all   to 

smash," 
With  wisdom,  a  lot — and  two  dollars  in  cash. 

Abbott  B.  Appleton  cursed  at  the  fair 
(Sing  fie!  for  a  man  who  'tended  meetin'), 
And  he  said  to  himself,  "  Gaul  swat  it,  I  swear 
Them  games  is  just  rigged  up  for  beatin'. 
I  thought  they  was  honest  down  here  in  this 

town  ; 

I  swow  if  I  hadn't  I  wouldn't  come  down ; 
But  if  cheatin's  their  caper  I  guess  there's  idees 
That  folks  up  in  Augerville  have,  if  ye  please. 
I'm  a  pretty  straight  man  when  they  use  me  all 

square, 

But  I'm  pirut  myself  at  a  Pirut-town  fair. 
I   won't  pick   their  pockets   to  git   back   that 

dough, 
But  I  reckin'  I'll  giv'  'em  an  Augerville  show." 

Abbott  B.  Appleton  "  barked  "  at  the  fair 
(Sing  sakes!  hotv  the  people  they  did  gather), 
And  his  cross-the-lot  voice  it  did  bellow  and 

blare 
Till  it  seemed  that  his  lungs  were  of  leather. 


JUST  HUMAN  NATURE         159 

He  said  that  he  had  there  inside  of  his  pen 
Most  singular  fowl  ever  heard  of  by  men : 
"  The  Giant  Americanized  Cock-a-too," 
With  his  feathers,  some  red  and  some  white, 

and  some  blue. 

He  promised  if  ever  its  like  lived  before 
He'd  give  back  their  money  right  there  at  the 

door. 
Then  he  vowed  that  the  sight  of  the  age  was 

within. 

"  'Twill  never,"  he  shouted,  "  be  seen  here  agin. . 
'Tis  an  infant  white  annercononda,  jest  brought 
From  the  African  wilds,  where  it  lately  was 

caught. 

The  only  one  ever  heern  tell  of  before, 
All  wild  and  untamed,  that  far  foreign  shore." 

Abbott  B.  Appleton  raked  in  the  tin. 

(Sing  chink!  for  the  money  that  he  salted.) 

Then  he  opened  the  gates  and  he  let  'em  all  in, 

And  then — well,  then  Abbott  defaulted. 

It  was  time  that  he  did,  for  the  people  had 

found 
Just  a  scared  Brahma  hen  squatting  there  on 

the  ground; 

Her  plumage  was  decked  in  a  way  to  surprise, 
With    turkey-tail    streamers   all   colored   with 

dyes; 


160  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  above,  on  a  placard,  this  sign  in  plain 

sight : 
"  There's  nothin'  else  like  her.     I  trimmed  her 

last  night." 
In  a  little  cracked  flask  was  an  angle-worm 

curled — 
:<  Young     annercononda,     sole     one     in     the 

world." 

And  another  sign  stated,  "  He's  small,  I  sup 
pose, 

But  if  he  hain't  big  enough,  wait  till  he  grows." 
And  Abbott  B.  Appleton,  speeding  afar, 
Was  counting  his  roll  in  a  hurrying  car, 
Saying  still,  "  As  a  general  rule  I'm  all  square, 
But  I'm  pirut  myself  at  a  Pirut-town  fair." 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART 


WITH  LOVE— FROM  MOTHER 

There's  a  letter  on  the  bottom  of  the  pile, 
Its  envelope  a  faded,  sallow  brown, 
It  has  traveled  to  the  city  many  a  mile, 
And  the  postmark  names  a  'way  up  country 

town. 
But  the  hurried,  worried  broker  pushe?  all  the 

others  by, 

And  on  the  scrawly  characters  he  turns  a  glis 
tening  eye. 

He  forgets  the  cares  of  commerce  and  his  anx 
ious  schemes  for  gain, 

The  while  he  reads  what  mother  writes  from 
up  in  Maine. 

There  are  quirks  and  scratchy  quavers  of  the 

pen 

Where  it  struggled  in  the  ringers  old  and  bent, 
There  are  places  where  he  has  to  read  again 
And  think  a  bit  to  find  what  mother  meant. 
There  are  letters  on  his  table  that  inclose  some 

bouncing  checks; 
There  are  letters  giving  promises  of  profits  on 

his  "  specs." 

161 


162  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

But   he   tosses   all   the   litter  by,    forgets   the 

golden  rain, 
Until  he  reads  what  mother  writes  from  up  in 

Maine. 

At  last  he  finds  "  with  love — we  all  are  well," 
And  softly  lays  the  homely  letter  down, 
Then  dashes  at  his  eager  tasks  pell-mell, 
— Once  more  the  busy,  anxious  man  of  town. 
But  whenever  in  his  duties  as  the  rushing  mo 
ments  fly 
That  faded  little  envelope  smiles  up  to  meet 

his  eye, 
He  turns  again  to  labor  with  a  stronger,  truer 

brain, 

From  thinking  on  what  mother  wrote  from  up 
in  Maine. 

All  through  the  day  he  dictates  brisk  replies, 

To  his  amanuensis  at  his  side, 
-The  curt  and   stern   demands  and  business 
lies, 

— The  doubting  man  cajoled,  and  threat  de 
fied. 

And  then  at  dusk  when  all  are  gone  he  drops 
his  worldly  mask 

And  takes  his  pen  and  lovingly  performs  a  wel 
come  task; 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          163 

For  never  shall  the  clicking  type  or  shorthand 

scrawl  profane 
The  message  to  the  dear  old  home  up  there  in 

Maine. 

The  penmanship  is  rounded,  schoolboy  style, 
For  mother's  eyes  are  getting  dim,  she  wrote; 
And  as  he  sits  and  writes  there,  all  the  while 
A  bit  of  homesick  feeling  grips  his  throat. 
For  all  the  city  friendships  here  with  Tom  and 

Dick  and  Jim 
And  all  the  ties  of  later  years  grow  very,  very 

dim; 
While  boyhood's  loves  in  manhood's  heart  rise 

deep  and  pure  and  plain. 
Called  forth  by  mother's  homely  words  from 

up  in  Maine. 


THE  QUAKER  WEDDING 

Without,  the  summer  silence  lies — 
Within,  the  meeting-house  is  still; 
The  hush  of  First  Day  hovers  o'er 
All  human-kind  on  Quaker  Hill. 
The  tethered  Dobbins  doze  and  blink 
In  stolid  calm  beneath  the  shed; 
In  First  Day,  Quaker  attitude, 


1 64  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

With  half-closed  eyes  and  drooping-  head. 
The  cheeping  birds,  abashed  and  mute, 
Have  skittered  off  to  search  for  shade. 
Just  one  lone  roysterer,  a  bee, 
Embarrassed  at  the  noise  he's  made, 
Whirrs  up  against  a  staring  pane 
And  folds  his  wings  and  sits  him  down, 
To  gaze  with  apiarian  mirth 
On  strange  drab  poke  and  shining  crown. 

The  elders  sit  in  sober  rows, 

Upon  the  long,  prim,  facing-seats; 

— Each  visage  like  an  iron  mask; 

No  look  of  recognition  greets 

The  softened  landscape  out  of  doors. 

— The  shimmer  of  the  summer  falls 

On  unresponsive  eyes;   The  God 

Of  Nature  all  unheeded  calls. 

Their  half-veiled  gaze  droops  coldly  down, 

Fixed  on  the  dusty,  worn,  old  floor, 

Unnoting  that  the  gracious  Lord 

Smiles  in  God's  sunshine  at  the  door. 

The  Spirit  has  not  moved  the  tongue; 
Each  contrite  soul  has  conned  its  own; 
And  in  the  hush  of  silent  prayer, 
Each  worshipper  has  bent  alone. 
And  some  are  sad  and  some  are  stern 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          165 

And  some  are  smug  and  others  bow 
As  though,  with  furtive  stealth,  to  hide 
What  conscience  writes  upon  the  brow. 

But  hark !  the  Meeting  lifts  its  eyes 

And  he  who's  sitting  at  the  head 

Breaks  on  the  hush  with  reverent  tone: 

"  If  friends,"  says  he,  "  have  planned  to  wed 

'Tis  meet  that  now  they  do  proceed." 

Forthwith  upon  the  women's  side 

A  blushing  youth  stands  forth  in  view 

And  with  him  shrinks  his  Quaker  bride. 

With  trembling  hand  in  shaking  palm, 

They  face  the  Meeting's  awful  hush, 

— No  minister  to  question  them, 

No  kindly  shield  to  hide  a  blush. 

Alone  they  stand,  alone  must  they 

Swear  matrimony's  solemn  oath; 

A  hundred  noses  point  their  way, 

Two  hundred  eyes  stare  hard  at  both. 

Then  twice  and  thrice  the  youth's  parched  lips 

Strive  hard  to  frame  the  longed-for  word; 

And  twice  and  thrice  he  tries  again, 

Yet  not  a  single  sound  is  heard. 

There's  just  an  upward  flash  of  eyes 

Like  starlight  in  a  forest  pool, 


1 66  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— She    may    have    said,    "  Take    heart,    dear 

one!" 
— She  may  have  said,  "  Go  on,  thou  fool !  " 

His  cheeks  flush  dark,  his  lips  are  gray, 
His  knees  drum  fast  against  the  pew. 
But  by  a  mighty  gasp  he  speaks, 
The  dry  lips  part,  a  croak  comes  through : 
"  Here  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
And  in  the  First-Day  meeting,  I 
Take  thee,  my  friend,  Susannah  Saul 
To  be  my  wife.     My  loving  eye 
Shall  rest  on  thee,  and  till  the  Lord 
Is  pleased  by  death  to  separate 
Our  lives  and  loves,  I'll  be  to  thee 
An  honest,  faithful,  loving  mate." 
As  one  an  echo  of  a  song 
Thrums  thinly  on  a  single  string, 
The  Quaker  maid  in  trembling  tones 
Vows  to  her  lord  to  likewise  bring 
Love,  truth  and  trust  to  grace  their  home. 
Their  voices  cease  and  side  by  side 
They  stand  abashed.     One  honest  voice 
Rolls  out,  "  Amen;  "  the  knot  is  tied. 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART    167 


THE  MADAWASKA  WOOING 

Petit  Pierre  of  Attegat, 

• — Peter,  the  Little,  round  and  fat, 

Balanced  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair 

And  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  Father  Claire. 

Without  on  the  porch,  defiant  sat 

The  prettiest  maiden  in  Attegat. 

And  here  was  trouble;    for  Zelia  Dionne 

Had  vowed  to  the  Virgin  she'd  be  a  nun; 

But  Peter,  who  loved  her  more  than  life, 

Was  fully  as  bound  she  should  be  his  wife. 

Yet  as  often  as  Peter  pressed  to  wed 

The  pretty  Zelia  tossed  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  for  the  wife  of  man,"  she  said. 

"  I've  dreamed  three  times  our  Mary  came 

And  pressed  my  brow  and  spoke  my  name. 

I  know  she  means  for  me  to  kneel 

And  take  the  vows  at  St.  Basil." 

Though  Peter  stormed,  yet  Zelia  clung 
To  her  belief  and  braved  his  tongue. 
"  Je  t'aime,  mon  cher,"  she  shyly  said, 
And  drooped  her  eyes  and  bent  her  head; 
"  But  when  our  Virgin  Mother  calls 
A  maiden  to  her  convent  walls, 


1 68  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

How  shameless  she  to  disobey 
And  follow  her  own  guilty  way !  " 
"  But  dearest,"  Peter  warmly  plead, 
"  'Twould  not  be  guilty  if  it  led 
To  our  own  home  and  our  own  love! 
Our  Holy  Mother  from  Above, 
Will  pardon  us — I  know  she  will — " 
And  yet  the  maid  responded  still, 
"  I  dare  not,  Peter,  disobey, 
And  follow  my  own  guilty  way." 
So  thus  it  chanced  that  Zelia  Dionne 
Had  vowed  herself  to  be  a  nun. 

Though  Peter  teased  for  many  a  day 
She  pressed  her  lips  and  said  him  nay, 
And  when  he  begged  that  she  at  least 
Would  leave  the  question  to  the  priest, 
Although  she  grudged  her  faint  consent 
As  meaning  doubt,  at  last  she  went, 
Overpersuaded  by  Peter's  prayer, 
To  take  the  case  to  Father  Clair. 

Peter,  the  Little,  of  Attegat 

Fumbled  with  trembling  hands  his  hat, 

As  breathlessly  he  tried  to  trace 

The  thoughts  that  crossed  the  father's  face. 

"  My  son,"  at  length  the  priest  returned, 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          169 

— How  Peter's  heart  within  him  burned — 

"  If  truly  by  the  maid  the  Queen 

Of  Most  High  Heaven  hath  been  seen, 

— If  only  in  her  maiden  dreams — 

You  must  allow  it  ill  beseems 

My  mouth  to  speak.     It  may  be  sin, 

For — well,  my  son,  bring  Zelia  in !  " 

She  stood  before  him  half  abashed 

Yet  boldly,  too; — her  dark  cheek  dashed 

With  ruddy  flame;    for  all  her  soul 

Burned  holily.     For  now  her  whole 

Rich  nature  stirred.     She  was  not  awed 

For  had  she  not  been  called  of  God? 

And  little  Peter  sat  and  stared 

And  marvelled  how  he'd  ever  dared 

To  lift  his  eyes  to  such  a  maid, 

Or  strive  to  wreck  the  choice  she'd  made. 

She  told  in  simple  terms  the  tale. 

"  And  do  you  wish  to  take  the  veil  ?  " 

The  father  asked.     "  Think  long,  think  twice 

And  never  mourn  the.  sacrifice." 

She  quivered,  but  she  said,  "  I've  thought; 

Our  Mary  wills  it  and  I  ought." 

"  And  can  you  gladly  say  farewell 

To  earth  and  love  and  friends;   to  dwell 

With  perfect  peace  nor  ever  sigh 


170  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

For  things  behind?"     She  said,  "I'll  try." 

But  even  as  she  spoke  the  word, 

The  old  time  love  for  Peter  stirred; 

And  mingling  with  her  quick  regret, 

There  came  a  sob  and  Peter's  wet, 

Sad  eyes  peered  at  her  through  a  rain 

Of  honest  tears.     She  tried  in  vain 

To  choke  her  grief,  but  Zelia  Dionne 

Forgot  her  vow  to  be  a  nun, 

And  crying,  "Pierre,  I  love  you  best!" 

She  flung  herself  upon  his  breast. 

A  moment  thus — and  then  in  prayer 
Both  knelt  before  good  Father  Clair. 
"  My  daughter,  did  that  vision  speak 
That  night  when  motherly  and  meek, 
She  pressed  her  hand  upon  thy  brow? 
No?     Then,  my  child,  she  spoke  just  now; 
And  in  the  promptings  of  thy  heart 
Her  word  is  clear.     My  child,  thou  art 
Blest  in  this  choice,  for  that  caress 
Upon  thy  brow  was  but  to  bless 
And  not  to  call  thee  from  thy  choice. 
Depart  in  peace,  wed  and  rejoice." 

Peter,  the  Little,  of  Attegat, 

Clapped  on  his  curls,  his  fuzzy  hat, 

And  clasping  the  hand  of  his  promised  bride 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          171 

He  trudged  back  home  with  one  at  his  side, 
— No  longer  the  self-vowed,  mournful  nun, 
But  laughing,  black-eyed  Zelia  Dionne. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MAN  WHO  DRIVES 

Here's  a  toast  to  the  kings  and  the  health  of 

the  queens 

Of  the  echoing  oval  course; 
And  a  song  of  the  steel  that  is  forged  for  the 

wheel 
And  the  hoof  of  the  blue-blood  horse! 

There's  the  song  of  the  steel  that  is  forged  for 

the  wars — 

The  song  of  the  long,  bright  sword; 
The  chant  of  the  weapon  the  patriot  draws 
In  defence  of  his  land,  in  support  of  its  laws — 
In  the  cause  that  his  heart  has  adored. 
But  the  sword  that  is  bared  to  the  glint  of  the 

sun, 
— Who    knows    when    that    sword    will    be 

sheathed  ? 

For  strife  plunges  hotly  when  once  'tis  begun, 
So  the  steel  of  the  sword  I  forswear  and  I 

shun, 
And  the  horrors  its  edge  has  bequeathed. 


172  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

No,  I  vaunt  the  honest  circlet  to  a  worthy  use 

applied — 

The  steel  that  flashes  swiftly  in  the  broad  two- 
minute  stride; 
The  steel  that  clinking  hammers  in  the  forges' 

clang  and  heat 
Have  shaped  with  merry  music  for  a  trotter's 

twinkling  feet. 
You  may  choose  the  glint  of  sabres  or  the  gleam 

of  martial  arms, 
As  for  me  the  vibrant  flashing  of  those  hoofs 

has  greater  charms, 
As  I  ride  the  swaying  sulky  and  we  cleave  the 

singing  air, 
And  I  hear  the  merry  rick-tack  of  the  trotting 

of  my  mare. 

Now  what  are  the  prizes  of  war,  my  boy, 
Or  the  honors  of  kingdom  and  court 
To  a  chap  that's  contented  with  honester  joy 
Than  desperate  ventures  that  crush  and  de 
stroy 

In  the  din  of  the  battlefield's  sport? 
I  envy  no  prowess  of  warriors  of  old 
Astride  of  a  mail-clad  steed, 
And  I  challenge  the  right  of  the  furious  might 
That  forces  an  innocent  victim  to  fight 
For  human  ambition  or  greed. 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          173 

But  ho,  for  the  rush  of  the  steel-shod  feet 
When  the  clink  of  the  bright  shoe  rings — 
When   the  flickering   hoofs   down  the   home 
stretch  beat 

And  I  on  the  perch  of  the  sulky  seat 
Drive  hard  in  the  Sport  of  Kings. 

I  pledge  to  you  the  honor  of  the  ringing,  sing 
ing  course, 
When  the  tautened  reins  are  throbbing  with  the 

motion  of  the  horse, 
When   the  glossy  shoulders  glisten  with  the 

twitching  muscles'  play, 
Beating  time  in  swift  staccato  to  the  slender 

sulky's  sway. 
Let  the  roaring  stand  go  crazy  as  we  finish  at 

the  pole — 
'Tis  no  human  acclamation  that  avails  to  stir 

my  soul, 
'Tis  the  batter  and  the  clatter  of  those  hoofs 

that  ring  and  beat, 
'Tis  the  rhythm  and  the  music  of  those  flashing 

little  feet — 
'Tis  the  sympathy  between  us,  all  a-quiver  in 

the  reins, 
Till  I  almost  feel  the  pulsing  of  the  current  in 

her  veins, 


174  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  I  have  no  eye  or  hearing  for  the  vain  ac 
claim  of  man 

When  my  heart  and  soul  are  throbbing  with 
her  hoof-beats'  rataplan. 

To  the  king  of  the  course!     To  the  queen  of 

the  track! 

What  matter  their  breeding  or  name? 
To  all  that  have  battled  the  second-hand  back 
Here's  tribute  in  measure  the  same. 
Here's  a  toast  to  the  king  and  the  health  of  the 

queen, 

Who  reign  on  the  oval  course, 
— To  the  stout,  stout  steel !  forged  true  for  the 

wheel 
Or  the  hoof  of  the  blue-blood  horse. 


THE  OLD  PEWTER  PITCHER 

I  festoon  for  Bacchus  no  chaplet  of  roses, 
I  will  vaunt  not  the  vat — I've  no  homage  for 
wine; 

Panegyric  of  paint  for  convivial  noses 
Shall  never  find  place  in  a  lyric  of  mine. 

Unseemly  indeed  were  such  rank  exhibition 
Of  scorn  for  the  statutes  that  seek  to  restrain, 

By  beneficent  mandate  of  stern  Prohibition, 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          175 

The  lust  for  the  grape  in  the  good  State  of 

Maine. 

So  a  truce  to  the  bowl  and  its  fervid  excitement. 
And  down  with  the  flagon,  the  goblet  and 

stein ! 

My  lyric  exalts  the  more  balmy  enticement 
Of  a  certain  old  humble  companion  of  mine. 
'Tis  addressed 
With  a  zest 

Springing  out  of  vague  unrest 
Stirring  underneath  my  vest. 
I'm  obsessed 
By  a  guest 

Who  has  come  at  my  behest 
From  the  misty  days  of  boyhood,  borne  se 
renely  in  the  van 
Of  the  friends  that  I'd  forgotten  in  the  cares 

that  grind  the  man. 
— You  were  just  a  pewter  pitcher,  a  demure 

and  dull  old  pot— 
With  a  yee-yaw  to  your  nozzle  like  the  grimace 

of  a  sot. 
The  knob  upon  your  cover  had  a  truly  rakish 

cant, 
Your  paunch  was  apoplectic  and  your  handle 

had  a  slant 

Of  a  most  .convivial  nature.     But  despite  your 
seedy  style 


176  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Not  a  guest  upon  the  threshold  got  a  more 

benignant  smile 
Than  when  upon  a  platter,  flanked  by  apples 

and  by  pears, 
You  rose  splashing  full  of  cider  up  the  dark  old 

cellar  stairs. 

I'm  sure  that  the  fruit  that  we  sacrificed  duly 
Each  fall  to  the  cruel  embrace  of  the  press 
Had  quaffed  of  the  honey  of  Nature  and  truly 
Deserved    from    her    hand    a    more    tender 

caress. 
I'm  sure  that  the  sun  kissed  both  fruit  and  the 

flower 
With  all  the  devotion  his  warm  heart  could 

bring, 
Till  Alcohol  ceded  his  ominous  power 

And  gall  lost  its  bitter,  the  adder  its  sting, 
For  though  round  and  round  went  the  old  pew 
ter  pitcher, 
And   chucklingly   filled    for   us    horn    after 

horn, 

We  never  saw  dragon,  blue  goblin  or  witch,  or 
Required  a  hoop  for  our  heads  in  the  morn. 
Here  goes! 
Here's  to  those 
Who  sat  and  warmed  their  toes 


NEXT  TO  THE  HEART          177 

Drowning  cares  and  frets  and  woes. 
No  one  knows 
How  memory  glows 
As  I  see  that  ancient  nose 
Gleaming  blandly  in  the  circle  of  the  friends  of 

long  ago 
Within,  the  light;    without,  the  night  and  the 

wind  and  drifting  snow. 
Then  the  dented  pewter  pitcher  poured  for  us 

its  amber  stream 
While  the  tinkling  bubbles  winked  upon  the 

brink  with  dancing  gleam, 
Ah,  there  was  no  guile  within  you  as  there  were 

no  gauds  without 
—Just  a  plain,  old-fashioned  fellow,  with  an 

awful  homely  snout; 
And  you  never  left  us  headaches  and  you  didn't 

stir  the  bile, 
And  no  guest  upon  the  threshold  got  a  more 

benignant  smile 
Than  when,  upon  a  platter,  flanked  by  apples 

and  by  pears, 

You  rose  splashing  full  of  cider  up  the  dark  old 
cellar  stairs. 


OUR   GOOD 
PREVARICATORS 

OUR  LIARS  HERE  IN  MAINE 

There  was  Sinon,  he  of  Troy,  and  Ulysses,  too, 

and  Cain, 
Who  preceded  many  centuries  the  liars  here  in 

Maine. 
There  was  Gulliver,   Munchausen,   there  was 

Ananias,  too, 
A  very  handsome  job  of  it  those  gentlemen 

could  do. 
Yet  look  at  Ananias !     Why,  his  story  knocked 

him  dead, 
But  here  in  Maine  the  liar  "  does  "  the  other 

man  instead. 
And  Sinon,  he  of  Troy,  had  to  plan  and  build 

his  lie, 
But  here  in  Maine  the  liar  doesn't  even  have 

to  try. 
For   the  pure   prevarication   comes   cascading 

down  his  lip 
And  he  never  seems  to  falter  or  to  stub  his  toe 

and  trip. 
And  he  walks  abroad  with  honor,  and  no  mortal 

will  arraign 

178 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS   179 

The  pure  and  worthy  motives  of  the  liar  here 
in  Maine. 

His  strongest  hold  is  fishing,  and  he  fixes  with 

his  eye 
The  victim   who  must  listen  and  who  never 

dares  deny. 
Each  river  and  pellucid  pond,  each  brooklet  and 

each  stream, 

Possesses  fifty  liars  to  preserve  it  in  esteem. 
And  he  that  owns  a  yaller  dog,  and  he  that 

owns  a  hoss 
Will  never  see  their  laurels  dimmed,  if  words 

can  add  a  gloss. 
'Tis  true  the  old  inhabitant,  narrating  ancient 

tales, 
Occasionally   soars   to   heights   where  homely 

language  fails. 
So  then,  alas,  he's  hampered  some,  but  note 

his  kindling  eye, 
And  as  he  gets  his  second  wind,  observe  how 

he  can  lie! 
'Tis  no  invidious  charge  I  bring  against  this 

worthy  crew, 
We  love  the  lies  they  tell  to  us  and  love  the 

liars  too. 

They  hold  to  truth  in  business  deals,  they'd 
never  lie  to  cheat; 


i8o  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

But  when  the  "  sport  "  conies  down  from  town, 
by  gracious  he's  their  meat. 

They  "  torch  "  him  up  with  narrative  until  his 
fancy  steams 

And  swogons,  yaps,  and  witherlicks  go  ramp 
ing  through  his  dreams. 

For  when  our  solemn  ruminants  describe  the 
olden  times 

They  stimulate  a  state  of  mind  I  can't  describe 
in  rhymes. 

I  pen  this  humble  lyric  and  I  bring  a  wreath  of 

bay, 
For  the  good  prevaricators  doing  business  down 

this  way. 

May  their  tongues  be   ever  limber,   and   im 
agination  free, 
With  no  interloping  infidel  to  ask  how  such 

can  be. 
May  the  plug  from  which  they  nibble  spice  a 

piquant,  pungent  tale, 
May  words  to  paint  the  details  of  their  fiction 

never  fail. 
Let  the  chips  from  which  they  whittle  always 

have  an  even  grain, 
And  we'll  challenge  all  creation  with  our  liars 

here  in  Maine. 


K 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS  181 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DOC  FLUFF 

Doctor  Fluff,  who  lived  in  Cornville,  he  was 

hearty,  brisk  and  bluff, 
Didn't   have  much   extry  knowledge,   but   in 

some  ways  knowed  enough; 
Knowed  enough  to  doctor  hosses,  cows  an'  dogs 

an'  hens  an'  sheep, 
When  he  come  to  doctor  humans,  wal,  he  wasn't 

quite  so  deep. 
Still,  he  kind  o'  got  ambitious,  an'  he  went  an' 

stubbed  his  toe, 
When  he  tried  to  tackle  subjects  that  he  really 

didn't  know. 

Doc  he  started  out  the  fust-off  as  a  vet'rinary 
doc, 

An'  he  made  a  reputation  jest  as  solid  as  a  rock. 

Doct'rin'  bosses'  thro'ts  or  such  like,  why,  there 
warn't  a  man  in  town 

Who  could  take  a  cone  of  paper,  poof  the  sul 
phur  furder  down. 

He  could  handle  pips  an'  garget  in  a  brisk  an' 
thorough  style, 

An'  there  wan't  a  cow  't  would  hook  him  when 
he  give  her  castor  ile. 


1 82  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

As  V.  S.  he  had  us  solid,  but  he  loosened  up  his 
hold 

When  he  doctored  Uncle  Peaslee  for  his  reg'lar 
April  cold. 

Uncle  Peaslee  allus  caught  it  when  he  took 
his  flannels  off, 

For  a  week  or  two  he'd  wheezle,  sniff  an'  snee- 
zle,  bark  an'  cough. 

An'  at  last,  in  desperation,  when  the  thing  be 
came  so  tough, 

He  adopted  some  suggestions  that  were  made 
by  Doctor  Fluff. 

Fust  o'  March  he  started  early  an'  he  reg'lar 

ev'ry  day 
From  his  heavy  winter  woolens  tore  a  little 

strip  away. 
For  the  doc  he  had  insisted  that  the  change 

could  thus  be  made, 
'Cause  the  system  wouldn't  notice  such  an  easy, 

steady  grade. 
Walsir,  'bout  the  last  of  April,  Uncle  Peaslee 

he  had  on 
Jest  the  wris'ban's  an'  the  collar — all  the  rest 

of  it  was  gone. 

Then — with  Doctor  Fluff  advisin' — on  a  mild 
an'  pleasant  day, 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS  183 

He  took  off  the  collar  'n  wris'ban's,  and  he 

throwed  the  things  away. 
An'   in   lesser'n  thutty  hours   he  was   sudden 

tooken  down 
With  the  wust  case  of  pneumony  that  we  ever 

knowed  in  town. 
An'  he  dropped  away  in  no  time;   it  was  awful 

kind  of  rough, 
An'  we  had  our  fust  misgivin's  'bout  the  skill 

of  Old  Doc  Fluff. 

Reckoned  that  'ere  scrape  would  down  him  an' 

he'd  stick  to  hens  an'  cows, 
But  he'd  got  to  be  ambitious,  an'  he  tackled 

Iral  Howes. 
Uncle  Iral's  kind  o'  feeble,  but  was  bound  to 

wean  a  caff; 
Went  to  pull  him  off  from  suckin'  when  the 

critter'd  had  his  haff. 
Caff  he  turned  around  an'  bunted — made  him's 

mad's  a  tyke,  ye  see — 
An'  old  Iral's  leg  was  broken,  little  ways  above 

the  knee. 
T'other   doctor  couldn't   git  there   'cause  the 

goin'  was  so  rough, 
So  they  had  to  run  their  chances  and  they  called 

on  Doctor  Fluff. 


184          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Doc  he  found  old  Iral  groanin'  where  they'd 

laid  him  on  the  bed, 
An'  he  took  his  old  black  finger,  rolled  up  Iral's 

lip  an'  said, 
"Hay-teeth    worn;     can't    chaw    his    vittles! 

Vittles  therefore  disagree, 
It's  as  tough  a  case  of  colic  as  I  think  I  ever 

see." 
Some  one  started  then  to  tell  him,  but  the  doc 

he  had  the  floor, 
An'  he  snapped  'em  up  so  spiteful  that  the} 

didn't  say  no  more. 

Then  he  wrinkled  up  his  eyebrows,  pursed  his 

lips  as  tight's  a  bung, 
Pried  apart  old   Iral's  grinders  an'   says  he, 

"  Le's  see  your  tongue." 
"  Why,"  says  he,  "  I  see  the  trouble — you've 

got  garget  of  the  blood, 
An*  if  symptoms  hain't  deceivin',  you  have  also 

lost  your  cud." 
"  Blame  yer  soul,"  groaned  Uncle  Iral,  "  can't 

ye  see  what's  ailin'  me? 
That  'ere  leg  is  broke !  "     "  Oh,  sartin,"  says 

the  doc,  "I  see!     I  see!" 

Then  he  pulled  off  Iral's  trousers,  an'  he  spit 
upon  his  fist, 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS    185 

Grabbed  that  leg  in  good  old  earnest  an'  com 
menced  to  twist  an'  twist. 

Iral  howled  an'  yowled  an'  fainted,  then  come 
to  an'  howled  some  more, 

He  an'  doc  they  fit  an'  wrassled  on  the  bed  an' 
on  the  floor. 

Doc,  though,  held  him  to  the  wickin' — let  old 
Iral  howl  an'  beg, 

Said  he'd  got  to  do  his  duty,  straight'nin  out 
his  blamed  old  leg. 

When  the  splints  come  off,  though,  later,  wal- 

sir,  Iral  was  provoked, 
Hain't  surprised  it  made  him  ugly,  for  he  sar- 

tinly  was  soaked. 
Doc  had  set  it  so  the  kneejoint  comes  behind, 

jest  like  a  cow's, 
An'  'twould  make  ye  die  a-laughin',  would  that 

gait  of  Iral  Howes'. 
If  that  case  of  Uncle  Peaslee  wasn't  damagin' 

enough, 
Bet  your  life  that  job  on  Iral  made  us  shy  of 

old  Doc  Fluff. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  HUNNEMAN  TWO 

Now  this  is  the  story  of  Hunneman  Two, 
Old  Hunneman  Two  from  Anclover  town; 


1 86          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— A  tub  with  the  likeliest,  heftiest  crew 
That  ever  hoorayed  in  a  hot  break-'er-down. 
And  I'll  give  you  the  facts,  for  if  any  one  knows 
It's  me  who  was  Hunneman's  foreman  of  hose : 

Ev'ry  feller  we  mustered  was  over  six  feet 
And  the  gang  that  we  brought  to  a  fireman's 

meet 
They  never  was  licked  and  they   never  was 

downed, 
And  a  crowd  up  against  us  would  likely  get 

drowned. 

Ev'ry  man  in  the  forty  was  six  feet  and  more 
And  their  shirts  was  the  reddest  that  ever  men 

wore; 

Whenever  they  hollered  they'd  jump  up  a  yard 
And  when  they  came  down  they  came  dreffully 

hard. 
Ev'ry  man  had  a  trumpet  and  some  of  them 

tew 
— And  'twas  safest  to  plug  up  your  ears  when 

they  blew. 

They'd  ballast  the  tub  with  a  cart-load  of  stone 
And  stuff  her  with  sody  ontil  she  would  groan 
Then  they'd  spit  on  their  fists  and  would  gaffle 

that  beam 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS    187 

And   whoop   fa,   la   larry,   my   jinks   what   a 
stream ! 

'Twas  h'ist  on  the  beam  till  your  eyeballs  gog 
gled, 

Hump- jump-pump ! 
Give  her  the  tar  till  her  old  sides  woggled, 

Pump-jump-hump ! 

Down  with  the  beam  till  it  sartin  would  seem 
We  were  drowndin'  the  sun  in  a  hissin',  white 

stream. 

Oh,  there  never  was  anything  up  with  the  crew 
That  buckled  the  beam  of  old  Hunneman  Two. 

One  time  we  were  playin'  at  Andover  fair 
And  old  Uncle  Boomer  drove  up  with  his  mare. 
She  cocked  up  an  eye  for  to  see  the  stream  sail 
Then  she  up  with  her  ears  and  her  head  and 

her  tail; 
And  whoosh !  she  was  off  down  the  Bunganuck 

road 

At  as  livelv  a  clip  as  a  mare  ever  hoed. 
Now  the  Bunganuck  road  it  was  right  straight 

away, 

And  jest  for  a  hector  we  started  to  play 
Right  over  the  tailboard,  right  into  his  team, 
And  we  followed  him  up  with  old  Hunneman's 

stream. 


1 88  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

We  followed  him  one  mile,  we  followed  him 

tew 
With  the  foreman  a-swearin'  and  all  of  the 

crew 

A-breakin'  her  down  and  a-crackin'  their  heels 
Till  we  lifted  her  plum  fair  and  square  off  the 

wheels. 
We  followed  him  three  miles,  we  followed  him 

four 
— If  he  hadn't  shied  off  we'd  a-followed  him 

more. 

Old  Boomer  got  rheumatiz  out  of  wet  feet 
For  we  kept  his  old  waggin  full,  clear  to  the 

seat. 

'Twas  h'ist  on  the  beam  till  your  eyeballs  gog 
gled, 

Pump-jump-hump ! 
Give  her  the  tar  till  her  old  sides  woggled, 

Hump- jump-pump ! 

Down  with  the  beam  till  it  sartin  would  seem 
We  were  drownin'  the  sun  in  a  hissin'  white 

stream. 

Oh,  there  never  was  anything  up  with  the  crew 
That  buckled  the  beam  of  old  Hunneman  Two. 


ORADUDOLPH  MOODY, 
REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT 

Bring  on  your  speechifyin'  runts,  yes,  bring 

your  biggest  gun; 
Trot  out  your  high-flown  orators,  we  don't  bar 

nary  one. 
From  Quoddy  Head  to  Caribou,  from  there  to 

sassy  York, 
Bring  out  your  braggadosho  chaps  who  think 

that  they  can  talk. 

We've  got  our  man — don't  want  no  odds  'nd 

warn  you  fair  and  true 
So't  when  the  Legislatoor  meets  you'll  have 

your  men  there,  too. 
He's  jest  a'goin'  to  sweep  the  floor,  we'll  have 

you  recollect, 
— Our    Oradudolph    Moody,    reprusentertive- 

elect. 

When  Mister  Moody  rises  up  'nd  'hams  'nd 

clears  his  thro't 
'Nd  loosens  up  his  gallowses  'nd  lays  aside  his 

co't, 
I  guess  he'll  fool  the  av'rage  man,  he  looks  so 

cool  'nd  carm, 


PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


A-dribblin  out  his  words  'nd  wavin*  careless- 

like  his  arm. 
But  pretty  soon  that  arm  goes  and  quivers  in 

the  air, 
His  hand  a-wrigglin'  up  a-top,  seems  'sif  'twas 

spinnin'  there. 
It  acts  as  sort  of  windmill,  pumpin'  langwidge 

I  expect 
From  Oradudolph  Moody,  reprusentertive-elect. 

When  Oradudolph  Moody  speaks  he  has  the 

durndest  knack 
Of  windin'   up  opponents   so  they  never  an 

swer  back. 
When  yearly  meetin'  comes  around  he  alwus 

swings  the  town 
On  anything  he  advocates  from  new  school- 

houses  down. 
The   elerquence   just   bubbles   up   without   no 

work  at  all, 

He  almost  mesmerizes  everybody  in  the  hall. 
'Nd  down  there  to  Augusty  you'll  parceive  the 

strange  effect 
Of  Oradudolph  Moody,  reprusentertive-elect. 

Magnetic!     He's  a  dynamo,  his  pulley  never 
slips, 


'Nd  eelectricity ! — It  runs  right  off  his  finger 
tips. 

We've  tried  to  send  him  down  before,  but  no, 
he  wouldn't  go; 

He  said  he  had  no  time  to  fool  with  Legisla- 
toors,  so 

Our  town  ain't  never  had  a  man  to  speak,  ex 
cept  Mulkearn, 

Who  managed  once  to  stutter  out  a  motion  to 
adjourn. 

But  now,  by  gosh  jest  set  right  back  and  wish 
fully  expect 

Our  Oradudolph  Moody,  reprusentertive- 
elect. 


TRIBUTE  TO  MR.  ATKINS'S  BASS 
VOICE 

E.  Perley  Atkins  had  a  low — deep — bass. 

The  noise  came  out  of  his  face, 

But  the  place 

Whence  the  sound  sprung 

And  bubbled  toward  the  bung, 

When  he  sung, 

To  come  lolloping  up  to  his  tongue, 

In  long  fortissimo  hoots, 

Or  staccato  toots, 


192  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— That  place  was  suttin'ly  down  in  his^boots. 

Omp,  omp! 

That  was  the  kind  of  a  bass 
That  oozed  from  the  face 
Of  E.  Perley  Atkins  who  lived  in  our  place. 

He  sung  at  all  the  paring  bees,  the  quilting  teas, 

and  parti-ees 
He  sung  at  all  the  shindigees  we  had  for  miles 

around. 

He  opened  his  lip  and  let  her  rip  and  folks  were 
never  obliged  to  tease, 
For  he  allowed 
That  he  was  proud 

As  well  as  the  rest  of  the  awe-struck  crowd 
Of  the  deep,  profundo  timbre  of  that  sound. 
Boomp,  boomp ! 

He  wended  thus  on  his  deep,  bass  way 

Ready  to  omp,  omp  night  or  day. 

He  sung  in  the  choir  Sunday  forenoon 

And  an  hour  later  furnished  a  tune 

For  the  Sabbath  school  and  the  Bible  class, 

With  a  voice  that  was  meller'n  apple  sass. 

At  evemn'  meetin'  he  came  around 

Full  to  the  neck  with  that  cream-rich  sound, 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS    193 

And  the  way  he  would  lead  Coronation  hymn 
Would  lift  ye  off'n  your  pew,  by  Jim. 
On  Monday  nights  he  had  a  call 
To  sing  for  the  Maltys  at  Jackson's  Hall. 
Tuesdays  the  Masons  and  Wednesdays  he 
Sung  like  blazes  for  the  I.  G.  T. 
Thursdays,   class-meetings,    Fridays,   sings 
With  Saturdays  open  for  rackets  and  things. 

A  busy  week?     Well,  I  guess,  but  wait, 

I  mustn't  forget,  my  friend,  to  state 

There  warn't  no  fun'ral  for  ten  miles  'round, 

No  dear  departed  tucked  under  ground, 

No  mourners  jammed  in  a  settin'  room, 

Sozzled  in  grief  and  soaked  in  gloom, 

But  Perley  was  there  with  his  rich,  cream  bass 

To  trickle  like  salve  on  the  wounded  place. 

And  the  tears  would  dry  on  each  mourner's 

nose, 

They'd  perk  right  up  and  forget  their  woes 
And  nudge  each  other  and  say,  "  Suz  me, 
What  a  beautiful  funeral  voice  that  be." 

And  in  time,  though  he  sang  for  all  who  asked, 
For  saint  and  sinner,  still  he  basked 
In  especial  favor  as  one  whose  ease 
And  voice  gave  a  tone  to  obsequies. 


194  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

It's  whispered  around,  and  I  guess  it's  so 
That  when  he  hinted  he  thought  he'd  go 
To  Rome  and  Paris  to  train  that  bass, 
A  widow  and  three  old  maids  in  the  place, 
Who  were  living  along,  no  man  knew  why, 
Decided  they'd  hurry  up  and  die. 

They  just   stopped   breathing  and   died   from 

choice 

For  the  sake  of  having  that  funeral  voice 
Draw  copious  streams  from  the  mourner's  eyes 
And  give  them  a  send-off  toward  Paradise. 
— No  man  who's  monkeyed  with  bass  B-flat 
Got  ever  a  compliment  higher'n  that. 

He  sung  at  all  the  paring  bees,  the  quilting  teas, 

the  parti-ees, 
He  sung  at  all  the  shindigees  for  twenty  miles 

around. 

He  opened  his  lip  and  let  her  rip, 
Admirers  had  no  need  to  tease, 
And  he  sprung  a  bass  that  joggled  the  roof  and 

fairly  shook  the  ground. 
While  the  echoes  of  his  "  funeral  voice  " 
Made  even  the  cherubim  rejoice, 
As  the  melody  pulsed  against  the  skies 
And  ushered  a  soul  into  Paradise. 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS   195 


JIM'S  TRANSLATION 

Couldn't  speak  of  nothin'  smart — no  one  strong 

or  spry — 
'Thout  old  Talleyrand  B.  Beals  to  grab  right 

in  an'  lie! 
All  the  thing  he'd  talk  about  was  chap  by  name 

of  Jim, 
Ev'ry  story  that  he  told  was  sort  of  hung  round 

him. 
— Said   the  critter'd   worked  for  him  twenty 

years  before, 
— Yarn  at  last  it  got  to  be  the  by-word  down 

t'  th'  store, 
When  we'd  hear  of  biggish  things,   "  That," 

we'd  say,  "  I  swan, 

Beats  tophet,  taxes,  time  an'  tide  an'  Bealses' 
hired  man." 

Beals,  though,  clacked  right  on  an'  on;  would 

set  an'  chaw  an'  spit, 
An'  tell  us  'bout  that  hired  man — couldn't  make 

him  quit! 
Champyun  jump  or  heft  or  swim — 'twras  all  the 

same  to  him, 
He'd  wait  till  all  the  rest  had  shot,  then  plug 

the  mark  with  Jim. 


196          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Had  to  laugh  the  other  day — boys  were  down 

t'  th'  store, 
Talleyrand  got  started  in — the  dratted,   deef 

old  bore! 
Silas  Erskine's  boy  spoke  up — that's  Ez;    wal, 

Ez  says  he, 
"Say,   Tal,   what  ever  come  o'   Jim?"     Old 

Beals  uncrossed  his  knee, 
Said  he,  "  A  master  cur'us  chap,  that  Jim  was, 

I  must  say, 
— Seemed  to  like  us  fine  as  silk,  but  off  he 

went  one  day, 
— Went  right  off  without  a  yip — didn't  take  his 

clothes; 
Hank'rin'    struck   him    all    to   once — couldn't 

wait,  don't  s'pose. 

Didn't  even  take  his  pay,  which  was  some  sur 
prise, 
— Prob'ly,  though,  a  lord  or  dook,  trav'lin'  in 

disguise." 
Beals  he  stopped  an'  gnawed  his  plug;   chawed 

an'  chawed  a  while, 
Then  Ben  Haskell  hitched  around  an'  smole  a 

sing'lar  smile. 
"  Told  that  hired  man,"  said  he,  "  I'd  never  let 

it  out, 
Guess  I'd  better  tell  it,  though,  an'  settle  all 

this  doubt. 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS    197 

Want  to  say  right  here  an'  now,  to  back  up 

Beals,"  says  Ben, 
"  His  Jim  did  sartin  wear  the  crown  amongst 

all  hired  men." 

S'prised  us  all  when  Ben  said  that,  'cause  he 

us'al  planned 
All  the  hector,  tricks  an'  jokes  't  were  put  on 

Talleyrand. 
Ben,  though,  kept  right  on  his  talk.     Ben  says, 

then  says  he, 
"  Here's  the  secret  how  he  went  for  I'm  the  man 

that  see. 

Happened  down  in  Allen's  field  day  fie  disap 
peared, 
Jim  came  'crost  the  intervale;   straight  as  H  he 

steered 
To'ards  that  silver  popple  tree;  up  that  tree  he 

clim', 
— Set  there,  sort  o'  lost  in  thought,  a-straddle 

of  a  limb. 
Jest  as  I'd  got  underneath  he  sighed  an'  took  a 

piece 
Of  mutton  taller — give  his  boots  a  heavy  co't 

of  grease, 
Greased  his  fingers  nice  an'  slick  an'  then — an' 

then,  I  swear, 
Grabbed  them  boot-straps,  give  a  pull  an'  up 

he  went  in  air." 


198          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— Ought  to  heered  us  critters  laugh — gre't  big 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw-w- !  " 
Jason  Britt  he  dropped  his  teeth,  Erskine  gulped 

his  chaw, 
Talleyrand  jest  set  there  grurn — fin'ly  snorted 

"Sho! 
Think  ye' re  smart,  ye  pesky  fool !    Lemme  tell 

ye,  though, 
'Tain't  so  thund'rin'  big  a  stretch  ye  made  then 

when  ye  lied, 
Bet  ye  Jim  could  lift  himself,  providin'  he  had 

tried. 
Stout?     I  see'd  him  boost  a  rock — "     "  Minit, 

Tal,"  says  Ben, 
"  Hain't  got  done  my  story  yit !     Jest  ye  wait 

till  then. 
— Soon's   I   see'd   that   critter   start,   hollered 

loud's  a  loon, 
'  Jeero  cris'mus,  Jim,'  said  I,  '  startin'  for  the 

moon  ? ' 
Jim   looked  down   an'   said,   says  he,   '  Don't 

know  where  I'll  fetch, 
Ner  care  a  rap  so  long's  I  dodge  old  Beals,  the 

mean  old  wretch ! 
Trouble  is,  consarn  his  soul,  his  feed  has  been 

so  slim 
I've  fell  away  till  northen's  left  'cept  clothes  an' 

name  o'  Jim. 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS   199 

Reckin  then  I'll  h'ist  myself,  'cause,  ye  see,  I've 

found 
It's  blame  sight  easier  raisin'  up  than  holdin' 

to  the  ground.' 

"  Then  he  give  them  straps  a  tug  an'  up  he  went 

from  sight, 
— Stood  an'  watched  him  till  he  growed  to  jest 

a  leetle  mite ! 

He's  the  champyun  hired  man,  sartin  sure,  be 
cause 
Critter    went    to    Paradise,    prob'ly    jest's    he 

was." 
Talleyrand  he  got  so  mad  he  actyal  wouldn't 

speak, 
Didn't  come  t'  th'  store  agin  for  more'n  a  solid 

week. 
Soon's  he  edged  around  some  more  wa'n't  no 

talk  from  him 
'Bout  no  hired  men,  you  bet!     Clack  was  shet 

on  Jim. 

ELIPHALET  JONES— INVENTOR 

Inventor  Jones — Eliphalet  Jones, 

Ah,  he  was  the  fellow  for  schemes ! 
Though  critics  might  carp  and  his  rivals  throw 
stones, 


200          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

They  never  vexed  Uncle  Eliphalet  Jones, 
Or  troubled  his  radiant  dreams. 

He  calmly  asserted  that  every  day 

One  hundred  inventions,  or  so,  came  his  way; 

They  flocked  through  his  mind  in  such  myriad 

rout 

He  hadn't  the  leisure  to  figure  them  out. 
But  he  said  if  a  fellow  should  chase  him  around 
With  a  pencil  and  notebook  'twould  surely  be 

found 

That  projects  prolific  were  shed  from  his  brain 
As  a  wet  bush,  when  shaken,  will  scatter  the 

rain. 
When   he   plowed,    when   he   hoed,    when   he 

sowed,  when  he  mowed 
He  was  steadily  throwing  off  load  after  load 
Of  notions,  he  stated — each  notion  a  mint 
For  the  chap  who  would  take  and  develop  the 

hint. 

But  Eliphalet  Jones — Eliphalet  Jones 
Was  so  busy  with  farmwork  and  clearing  off 

stones, 

So  busy  with  milking  and  errands  and  chores 
He  scattered  inventions  by  dozens  and  scores 
With  a  liberal  hand,  but  with  barren  effect, 
For   they   dried   on   the   cold,    arid   sands   of 

neglect. 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS  201 

But  for  all  he  forgot  he  would  cheerfully  say 
There  were  always  as  many  the  very  next  day. 
And  he  figured   it  up;    though  enormous   it 

seems 
He  had  fashioned  and  fired  some  ten  thousand 

schemes. 

Now,  out  of  that  number  a  limited  few 
Eliphalet  tackled  and  engineered  through ; 
A  few  little  notions  right  out  of  his  head 
To  help  out  the  farmwork,  he  carelessly  said. 
One  patent,  a  holder  to  hitch  a  cow's  tail 
So  she  couldn't  keep  swatting  the  man  with  the 

pail; 

A  few  dozen  scarecrows  of  hellish  design, 
Real  impish  constructions  to  jig  on  a  line 
That  was  jerked  by  a  water-wheel  down  in  the 

brook ; 
All  the  horses  that  passed,  if  they  got  a  good 

look 
Tumbled  down  stiff  and  dead  or  else,  frantic 

with  fear, 
Kicked  the  wagon  in  bits  and  spun  'round  on 

one  ear. 
And  he  rigged  a  contrivance  by  which  ev'ry 

morn 

His  old  Brahma  rooster  descending  for  corn, 
Stepped  down  on  a  lever  that  flipped  up  a  lock 


202  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  down  came  the  fodder  in  front  of  the 

stock. 

Still,  these  were  but  puerile  notions  beside 
The  thing  that  he  hoped  for — his  spur  and  his 

pride, 
His  climax  of  schemes  ere  he  went  back  to 

dust — 
For  he  vowed  that  he'd  fathom  the  secret  or 

"bust;" 

That  if  motion  perpetual  ever  could  be 
Discovered  by  mortal,  that  man  should  be  he. 
So  he  fussed  with  his  springs  and  his  wee-jees 

and  wings 

And  all  sorts  of  queer  little  duflicker  things, 
And  he  builded  queer  whiz-a-jigs,  then  with  a 

frown 

He  ruthlessly,  scornfully  cuffed  them  all  down. 
Well,  the  years  hurried  by,  as  the  years  surely 

will, 

But  Eliphalet  Jones  he  was  confident  still, 
For  he  constantly  vowed  that  some  thingumy 

spring 
Put  somewhere  "  would  settle  the  dad-ratted 

thing." 
Yet  the  years  skittered  past  and  his  head  was 

snow-white 
And  he  almost  had  solved  it,  but  never  "  jest 

quite;  " 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS   203 

So  the  neighbors  employed  some  satirical  tones 
When  they  chanced  to  refer  to  Perpetual  Jones. 
But  hail  to  his  name  and  remember  his  fame ! 
At  the  last — at  the  last,  friends,  he  won  the 

great  game ! 

He  died  at  the  birth  of  his  triumph,  'tis  true, 
And  he  left  only  words — yet  I  give  them  to 

you, 
Convinced  they're  a  gift  to  the  world,  without 

doubt, 

Or  will  be  as  soon  as  the  thing  is  worked  out. 
He  sat  in  his  chair  by  the  window  one  day 
While  his  grandson  was  out  with  a  puppy  at 

play; 
And  the  boy  hitched  some  meat  to  the  tail  of 

that  pup, 
Then  he  gave  him  a  twirl  and  the  puppy  "  gee- 

ed  up," 
And  he  spun  and  he  spun  and  he  spun  and  he 

spun 

Just  as  fast  at  the  last  as  when  he  begun, 
But  the  tail  and  the  meat  ever  kept  just  ahead 
Of  the  clamorous  jaws  as  the  puppy  dog  sped. 
"  There  she  is,"  cried  Eliphalet,  "  darned  if  she 

ain't! 

There's  perpetual  motion !  "  and  pallid  and  faint 
He  fell  prone  and  dying.     They  lifted  him  up 


204  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  his  eyes,  glazed  with  death,  looked  their 

last  on  that  pup. 

And  through  the  dark  shade  of  mortality's  fog 
He  gasped,  "  All  you  need  is  the  right  kind  of 

dog." 

Inventor  Jones — Eliphalet  Jones, 

Ah,  he  was  the  fellow  for  schemes; 

Though  critics  might  carp  and  his  rivals  throw 
stones 

They  never  vexed  Uncle  Eliphalet  Jones, 
Or  troubled  his  radiant  dreams. 


THE  PANTS  JEMIMY  MADE 

Aunt  Brown — Jemimy  Brown — 
Was  a  spinster,  spinner-weaver  of  merited  re 
nown  ; 

Our  town  set  it  down 
As  a  fact  beyond  disputing  there  was  never 

any  suiting 

Like  the  suiting  that  was  made  by  Spinster 
Brown. 

She  raised  the  wool  she  made  it  of,  she  even 

raised  the  sheep, 
She  fed  'em  on  the  toughest  straw  the  hired 

man  could  reap; 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS  205 

She   spun   the   thread   with   double-twist   and 

made  a  warp  and  woof 
So  tarnal  tough  it  really  seemed  'twas  almost 

bullet-proof. 
And  when  the  cloth  was  shrunk  and  dyed  and 

ready  for  a  suit 
The  men  in  town  would  almost  fight,  they'd 

get  in  such  dispute 
Concerning  who  had  spoken  first — the  farthest 

in  advance — 
And  therefore  had  the  prior  claim  on  Aunt 

Jemimy's  pants. 

The  cloth  that  folks  make  nowadays  is  slimpsy, 

sleazy  stuff; 
It's  colored  up  in  fairish  style  and  fashionable 

enough ! 
But  blame  the  goods!     It's  made  to  sell — it 

isn't  made  to  wear — 
These  trousers  here  I've  worn  five  year,  and 

that  is  merely  fair. 
But  when  you  bought  a  cut  of  cloth  of  Aunt 

Jemimy's  weave, 
You  got  some  stuff  to  last  you  through,  you'd 

better  just  believe! 

Why,  'bout  the  time  that  modern  pants  are  get 
ting  worn  and  thin 


206  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

A  pair  of  Aunt  Jemimy's  pants  were  scarcely 

broken  in. 
I've  got  a  pair  up  attic  now,  made  forty  years 

ago— 
They're  just  as  tough  as  iron  still  and  Time 

has  made  no  show. 
They've  stood  the  brunt  of  honest  work  and 

dulled  the  tooth  of  moth, 
And  there  they  stand,  as  stiff's  a  slab,  good, 

plain,  old-fashioned  cloth. 
And   so  I   think   it's   only   right  that  tribute 

should  be  paid 
To  those  old  sturdy  pioneers — the  pants  Je- 

mimy  made. 

The  day  I  first  put  on  those  pants  I  held  a 
break-up  plough — 

The  farmers  of  these  later  days  don't  have 
such  wrassles  now; 

I  drove  six  oxen  on  ahead,  a  pretty  hefty  team, 

For  farming  in  those  old,  old  days  took  mus 
cle,  grit  and  steam; 

You  didn't  stop  for  rocks  and  stumps,  nor 
dodge  and  skive  and  skip, 

Or  else  you'd  have  to  lug  your  meals  on  ev'ry 
furrow's  trip, 

And  so  the  only  thing  to  do  was  make  the  oxen 
tread 


OUR  GOOD  PREVARICATORS  207 

And  hold  the  ploughshare  deep  and  true,  and 

plunk  'er  straight  ahead. 
So    back    and    forth    and    back    and    forth    I 

ploughed  and  ploughed  that  day; 
I  tackled  ev'ry  rock  and  snag  that  dared  dispute 

my  way, 
Until  the  only  critter  left  was  one  old  maple 

stump, 
And  I? — I  gave  the  team  the  gad — and  took 

'er  on  the  jump! 
She  split  in  halves  and  through  I  went,  but 

back  she  slapped,  ker-whack, 
And  gripped  Jemimy's  pantaloons  right  where 

she'd  left  the  slack. 
The  team  was  going  double-quick — the  oxen 

plunged  along — 
I  held  the  old  oak  handle-bars,  I  gripped  'em 

good  and  strong — 
And  there  I  was,  the  living  link  'twixt  stump 

and  plough,  because 
The  cloth  it  stuck  there  good  and  tight  between 

those  maple  jaws. 
Jemimy  never  planned  on  that,  in  making  pants 

for  me; 
She  made  'em  solid,  yet  of  course  she  gave  no 

guarantee 
That  they  would  stand  a  yank  like  that — but 

still  I  clung  and  yelled, 


208          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Those    oxen    plunged    and    tussled    and — Je- 

mimy's  pants,  they  held! 
And  the  stump  came  out  a-kicking,  roots  and 

dirt  and  stones  and  all, 
But  those  pants  weren't  even  started  by  that 

most  tremendous  haul, 
And  to  prove  this  'ere  is  truthful,  should  some 

scoffer  cast  a  doubt, 
I  have  saved  the  chips  and  hewings  where  they 

came  and  chopped  me  out. 

Aunt  Brown — Jemimy  Brown — 
Was  a  spinster,  spinner-weaver  of  merited  re 
nown  ; 

Our  town  set  it  down 
As  a  fact  beyond  disputing  there  was  never 

any  suiting 

Like  the  suiting  that  was  made  by  Spinster 
Brown. 


BALLADS  OF  "CAPERS 
AND  ACTIONS" 


BALLAD  OF  ELKANAH  B.  ATKINSON 

Elkanah  B.  Atkinson's  tarvun  was  run 

On  a  plan  that  was  strictly  his  own; 
And  he  "  reckoned  that  dudified  sons  of  a  gun  " 

Would  far  better  leave  him  alone. 
He  allowed  that  he  always  had  plenty  to  eat 

For  folks  that  liked  vitt-u-als  plain; 
An'  when  ye  came  down  to  pettaters  and  meat 

His  house  was  a  credit  to  Maine. 

The  garding  truck  they  raised  themselves, 
They  killed  their  pork;    and  the  but'ry  shelves 
Jest  fairly  groaned  with  jells  and  jams ; 
— In  a  shed  out  back  they  smoked  their  hams. 
And  old  Elkanah  used  to  brag 
They  laid  down  pickles  by  the  kag; 
And  they  had  the  darndest  hens  to  lay 
— Got  fifty  eggs  most  ev'ry  day — 
And  ev'ry  egg  was  big's  your  fist 
And  fresher'n  a  whiff  of  mountain  mist. 
The  whole  blamed  house  it  used  to  shake 
When  old  Elkanah  pounded  steak, 
For  he  used  to  say  what  made  meat  tough 
Was  'cause  some  cooks  warn't  strong  enough. 
209 


2io  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  he  piled  the  grub  right  on  sky-high: 
Soup  and  meat  and  fish  and  pie 
— All  the  courses  on  first  whack — 
And  then  Elkanah  he'd  stand  back 
And  say:      '  There,  people,  now  hoe  in; 
When  ye've  et  that  grub,  pass  up  ag'in; 
Of  course  we  hain't  no  big  hotel, 
But  some  few  things,  why,  we  dew  well." 

P.  Mortimer  Perkins  came  down  from  New 
York, 

— A  salesman  for  corsets  and  things; 
With  his  trousers  all  creased  and  a  lah-de-dah 
walk, 

As  if  he  were  jiggered  by  strings; — 
Arrived  at  the  Atkinson  tarvun  one  night 

And  says  to  Elkanah,  says  he: 
"  I  want  to  be  called  just  as  soon  as  it's  light, 

For  I'm  going  first  train,  don't  ye  see. 
It's  very  important  I  go  by  first  train, 

But  I  find  in  these  country  hotels 
The  service  ye  get  gives  a  fellah  a  pain 

— They  don't  even  ahnswer  the  bells. 
Now  I  want  to  be  called  for  that  train,  me  good 
man, 

For  it's  very  important  I  go; 
Now  weally,  old  chappie,  please  see  if  you  can 

Just  do  a  thing  right  once,  y'  know- 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  an d  ACTIONS  211 

Ye  may  call  me  at  four,  and  at  half  after  four 

I'll  bweakfast;   now  recollect,  please! 
Before  I  wetire  I'll  tell  you  once  more; 

— You'll  get  the  idea  by  degwees." 
Elkanah  B.  Atkinson  lowered  his  specs 

To  the  very  tip-end  of  his  nose; 
Says  he :   "  When  a  feller  he  really  expec's 

To  go  by  that  train,  wal — he  goes. 
Jest  fall  right  asleep  and  don't  worry  a  mite; 

This  hain't  -no  big  city  hotel, 
But  we'll  git  ye  to  goin'  termorrer  all  right, 

For  there's  some  things  we  dew  fairly  well." 

Elkanah  B.  Atkinson  sat  all  night 

And  kept  the  office  fire  bright. 

He  nodded  some  and  yawned  and  smoked, 

And  at  half-past  three  he  went  and  poked 

The  kitchen  fire;    then  pounded  steak 

And  set  potatoes  in  to  bake. 

Started  the  coffee  and  all  the  rest 

And  then  went  up  to  call  his  guest. 

Bangity,  whang!    on  the  cracked  old  door! 

Whangity,  bang !     It  checked  a  snore. 

P.  Mortimer  Perkins  opened  his  eyes 

In  the  cold  dark  dawn  with  much  surprise, 

And  under  the  coverlet  warm  and  thick 

On  the  good,  old-fashioned  feather  tick, 

Felt  the  cold  on  his  nose  like  a  frosty  knife 


212          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  was  never  so  sleepy  in  all  his  life. 

But  still  bang,  whang  on  the  cracked  old  door ! 

And  Elkanah  shouting,  "  Mos'  ha'f-pas'  four!  " 

But  the  louder  the  old  man  pounded  and  yapped 

The  more  the  drummer  garped  and  gapped. 

At  last  says  he :   "  Is  it  stormy — oh-h-h?  " 

"  Wall,"  says  Elkanah,  "  she's  spittin'  snow." 

P.  Mortimer  Perkins  snuggled  down 

And  says  he,  "  This  isn't  a  blamed  bad  town; 

I  say,  old  man,  now  please  go  'way, 

I've  changed  my  mind,  and  I  guess  I'll  stay." 

Elkanah  B.  Atkinson  then  says  he : 

"  This  changin'  minds  is  a  bad  idee; 

I've  set  in  that  office  there  all  night 

So's  I  could  git  ye  up  all  right. 

An'  breakfus'  is  on,  an'  the  coffee's  hot; 

Now,  friend,  ye  can  go  on  that  train  or  not, 

But  I  tell  ye  now,  right  off'  the  reel, 

Ye' re  goin'  to  git  up  and  eat  that  meal." 

P.  Mortimer  Perkins  cursed  and  swore, 

But  Elkanah  slammed  right  through  that  door, 

And  he  pulled  that  drummer  out  of  bed 

And  brandished  a  chair  'round  over  his  head; 

He  poked  his  ribs  and  made  him  dress 

So  sleepy  still  that  his  gait  cut  S 

As  he  staggered  down  to  the  dining-room 

And  ate  his  meal  in  the  cheerless  gloom, 


'  Klkanah  B.  Atkinson  sat  all  night 
And  kept  the  office  fire  bright." 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS  213 

While  over  him  stood  the  grim  old  man 
With  a  stick  and  a  steaming  coffee  can. 
"  Now,  mister,"  allowed  Elkanah,  "  sence 
It's  a  special  breakfus'  it's  thutty  cents." 
When  the  feller  paid,  as  meek's  a  pup, 
And  stuttered  "Now,  can  I  be  put  up?" 
"Why,  sartin,  mister,"  Elkanah  said; 
"  Ye  can  go  to  tophet  or  back  to  bed; 
There  hain't  hard  feelin's,  no,  none  at  all, 
But  when  a  feller  he  leaves  a  call 
At  the  Atkinson  House  for  an  early  meal, 
He  gits  it  served  right  up  genteel, 
An'  when  it's  served,  wal,  now  you  bet 
There  hain't  no  peace  till  that  meal's  been  et. 
Of  course  we  hain't  no  big  hotel, 
But  some  few  things  we  dew  quite  well." 


BALLAD  OF  OBADI'  FRYE 

'Twas  a  battered  old,   double-B,  twisted  bass 

horn, 

With  a  yaw  in  the  flare  at  its  end; 
A  left-over  veteran,  relic  forlorn 
Of  the  halcyon  days  when  a  band  had  been 

born 
To  the  village  of  Buckleby  Bend. 


214          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

The  band  was  dismembered  by  time  and  by 

death 

As  the  years  went  a-scurrying  by, 
And  only  one  player  was  left  with  his  breath 
And  that  was  old  Obadi'  I. 

P.  Frye. 
Old  Obadi'  Isaac  Pitt  Frye. 

With  a  glow  in  his  eye 
He  would  plaintively  try 
To  puff  out  the  tune  that  they  marched  to  at 

training; 

But  the  tremolo  drone 
Of  the  brassy  old  tone 
Quavered  queerly  enough  with  his  scant  breath 

remaining. 
Ah,  the  years  had  been  many  and  bent  was  his 

back, 
And   caved   was   his   chest   and   departed   his 

knack; 

So,  though  he  was  filled  with  musicianly  pride 
And  huffed  at  the  mouthpiece  and  earnestly 

tried 

To  steady  his  palsied  old  lip  and  control 
The  old-fashioned  harmonies  stirring  his  soul — 
There  was  nothing  in  Buckleby  quite  so  for 
lorn 
As  the  oomp-tooty-oomp  of  that  old  bass  horn. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   215 

To  the  parties  and  sociables,  quiltings  and  sings 

They  invited  old  Obadi'  Frye; 
He'd    give    'em    doldrums    of    old-fashioned 

things 
With  occasional  bass  obligato  for  strings 

— Or  at  least  he  would  zealously  try. 
The  minister  coaxed  him  to  buy  a  cornet 

And  chirk  up  a  bit  in  his  tune, 
But  none  could  induce  him  to  ever  forget 

His  love  for  that  old  bassoon, 

Whose  tune 

Was  the  solace  of  life's  afternoon. 

So  he'd  splutter  and  moan 

With  his  thin,  gusty  tone 
But  his  empty  old  lungs  balked  his  anxious  en 
deavor. 

He  hadn't  the  starch 

For  a  jig  or  a  march, 

And  with  double-F  volume  he'd  parted  forever. 
For  he  hadn't  the  breath  for  a  triple  note  run, 
'Twas  a  whoof  and  a  pouf !  and  alas,  he  was 

done; 

But  the  pride  of  his  heart  was  that  old  double- 
bass, 

He  was  happy  alone  with  its  lips  at  his  face. 
So  he  sat  in  his  old  leather  chair  day  by  day 
And  whooped  the  one  solo  he'd  power  to  play, 


216  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

An    anthem    entitled,    "  All    Hail    Christmas 

Morn," 
As  rendered  by  gulps  on  an  old  bass  horn. 

"  All  hail — hoomp — hoomp — bright  Christmas 

morn, 
Hail — hoomp,  hoomp — hoomp — fair 

hoomp — hoomp — dawn ; 
Turn — hoomp — hoomp,  eyes 

hoomp — hoomp, 

HOOMP— skies, 
When — hoomp — hoomp, 

hoomp— HOOMP— born." 

While  a-tooting  one  morning  his  breath  flick 
ered  out 

With  a  sort  of  a  farewell  purr; 
Of  course  there  are  many  to  scoff  and  to  scout, 
But  'twas  sucked  by  that  cavernous  horn  with 
out  doubt, 

At  least,  so  the  neighbors  aver. 
They  laid  him  away  in  the  churchyard  to  rest 
And  with  grief  that  they  sought  not  to  hide, 
They  placed  the  old  battered  B-B  on  his  breast 
And  that  Christmas  hymn  score  by  his  side — 

His  pride, 
'Twas  the  tune  that  he  played  when  he  died. 


BALLADS  -of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS  217 

Now,  who  here  denies 
That  far  in  the  skies 

He  is  probably  calmly  and  placidly  winging; 
That  his  spirit  new-born 
With  his  score  and  his  horn 
Takes  flight  where  the  hosts  are  triumphantly 

singing. 
Yet  it  irks  me  to  think  that  he's  far  in  that 

Land 

With  only  the  score  of  one  anthem  in  hand. 
For    the    music    Above    must    be    novel    and 

strange — 

Too  intricate  far  for  that  double-B  range, 
But  at  last  when  the  Christmastide  rings  in  the 

skies 

There'll  be  some  queer  quavers  in  fair  Para 
dise, 

For  an  humble  old  spirit  will  calmly  allow 
"  I  reckin  I'll  give  'em  that  horn  solo  now." 
Up  there  we  are  certain  there's  no  one  to  carp 
Because  Obadiah  won't  tackle  a  harp — 
Seraphs  and  cherubs  will  hush  their  refrain 
When  a  new  note  of  praise  intermingles  its 

strain, 
And  he'll  add  to  the  jocund  delight  of  that 

morn 
With  his  anthem,  "  All  hail,"  on  that  old  bass 

horn. 


218          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  All  hail — hoomp — hoomp — bright  Christmas 

morn, 
Hail — hoomp,  hoomp — hoomp — fair 

hoomp — hoomp — dawn ; 
Turn — hoomp — hoomp,  eyes 

hoomp — hoomp, 

HOOMP— skies, 
When — hoomp — hoomp, 

hoomp— HOOMP— born." 


AT  THE  OLD  FOLKS'  WHANG 

Flappy-doodle,     flam,     flam — whack,     whack, 

whack ! 
Balance  to  the  corners  and  forward  folks  and 

back; 

Gaffle  holt  an'  gallop  for  an  eight  hands  round, 
While  the  brogans  and  the  cowhides  they  pessle 

and  they  pound;- 
No  matter  for  the  figger  providin'  there's  the 

time. 
Jest  cuff  'er  out  and  jig  'er; — jest  hoe  'er  down 

and  climb! 
No  matter  'bout  your  toes  or  corns;    let  rheu- 

matiz  go  hang, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS  219 

For  we're  weltin'  out  the  wickin  at  the  old 
folks'  whang. 

— At  the  old  folks'  whang 
Hear  the  cowhides  bang, 

When  we  "  up  and  down  the  center  "  at  the  old 
folks'  whang. 

Yang,  tangty,  yee-yah! — yang,  yang,  yang! 
Old  Branscomb  plays  the  riddle  at  the  old  folks' 

whang; 
And  he  puts  a  sight  o'  ginger  in  the  chitter  of 

the  string, 
— It  isn't  frilly  playin'  but  he  makes  that  fiddle 

sing. 
He  slashes  out  promis'cus,  sort  o'  mixin'  up 

the  tune, 
— Takes  the  Irish  Washerwoman,  slams  'er  up 

agin  Zip  Coon; 
And  he  Speeds  the  Plough  a  minute,  then  he'll 

sort  o'change  his  mind 
And  go  off  a-gallivantin'  with  the  Girl  I  left 

Behind. 
Oh,  he  mixes  up  his  music  queerest  way  I  ever 

saw, 
For  he  shifts  the  tune  he's  playin'  ev'ry  time 

he  shifts  his  chaw; 
But  we  never  mind  the  changes  for  he  keeps  us 

on  the  climb, 


220  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


— He  may  twist  the  tune  a  little  but  he's  thun 
der  on  the  time ! 
So  line  up  and  choose  your  pardners — we're 

the  old  ones  out  for  fun, 
You'll  forgit  your  stiff  rheumaticks  jest  as  soon 

as  you've  begun. 
'Course  we  ain't  so  spry  and  spiffy  as  we  used 

to  be,  but  yet 
We  can  show  them  waltzy  youngsters  jest  a 

thing  or  two,  you  bet. 
We  will  dance  the  good  old  contras  as  we  used 

to  years  ago, 
Jest   as    long   as    Uncle    Branscomb    has    the 

strength  to  yank  the  bow. 
There  is  no  one  under  sixty — we've  shet  out 

the  youngster  gang 
And  we're  goin'  to  welt  the  wickin'  at  the  old 

folks'  whang. 

— At  the  old  folks'  whang 
Hear  the  cowhides  bang, 
When  we  canter  up  the  center  at  the  old  folks' 

whang. 

IN  THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  ROAD 

O,  the  sleddin's  gettin'  ragged  and  it's  dodge 

and  skip  and  skive, 
Till  it's  jest  an  aggravation  for  to  try  to  start 

and  drive. 


Fust  to  this  side,  then  to  t'other — here  some 

ice  and  there  some  snow, 
—Just  continyal  gee  and  holler;    fust  "  Gid- 

dap,"  and  then  it's  "Whoa!" 
Takes  a  half  a  day  to  git  there,  round  by  way 

o'  Robin  Hood; 
Like  as  not  ye'll  bust  your  riggin'  haulin'  out 

your  hay  and  wood. 
'Tain't  no  way  o'   doin'  bus'ness;     'tain't  no 

way  to  haul  a  load, 

— You  must  do  your  hefty  haulin'  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  road. 

If  ye  want  to  keep  a-hoein' 

Better  wait  for  settled  goin', 

For  twice  the  heft  goes  easy  in  the  middle  of 

the  road. 

O,  in  dealin's  with  your  neighbors,  brother, 
sure  as  you're  alive, 

It's  better  to  go  straight  ahead  and  never  skip 
or  skive. 

For  the  man  who  keeps  a-dodgin'  back  and 
forth  across  the  way 

Like  enough  will  find  his  outfit  in  the  gutter, 
stuck  to  stay. 

Till  the  road  is  clear  and  settled,  till  with  can 
dor  in  your  heart 

You  can  see  your  way  before  you,  guess  ye 
hadn't  better  start; 


222  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

For  to  get  there  square  and  easy;  and  to  lug 

your  honest  load, 

You'll  find  it's  best  to  travel  in  the  middle  of 
the  road. 

— So's  to  make  an  honest  showin' 
Better  wait  for  settled  goin', 
Then,  s'r,  hustle  brisk  and  stiddy  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  road. 


DRIVIN'  THE  STAGE 

Drivin'  the  stage, 
Oh,  drivin'  the  stage, 
With  the  wind  fairly  peelin'  your  hide  with  its 

.     aidge ! 
Jest  got  to  git  through  with  the  'Nited  States 

mail 
For    the   contract    provisions    don't    have    the 

word  "  Fail." 
So  it's  out  and  tread  drifts  while  the  snow 

howls  and  sifts 

For  a  dollar  a  trip — and  no  extrys — no  gifts. 
For  them  star-route  contractors  they  rigger  it 

fine 

And  take  it  right  out  of  the  chaps  on  the  line. 
They  set  in  an  office  and  rake  in  their  slice 
While  the  drivers  are  tusslin'  the  snow  and  the 

ice. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    223 

It  may  howl,  it  may  yowl,  it  may  snow,  it  may 

blow 
But  that  'Nited  States  mail,  wal,  it  jest  has  to 

go- 
So  it's  out  and  unhitch,  leave  the  pung  where 

it's  stuck, 
Lo'd  the  bags  on  the  hosses  and  then,  durn  ye, 

huck ! 
And  it's  waller  and  struggle,  walk  stun'-walls 

and  rails 
For  they  don't  stand  no  foolin' — them  'Nited 

States  mails. 
And  at  last  when  ye  git  there,  jest  tuckered 

and  beat, 
And  sling  in  the  bags  and  crowd  up  to  the 

heat, 
The  gang  round  the  stove  they  don't  give  ye 

no  praise 
But  set  there  and  toast  themselves  'side  of  the 

blaze; 

And  ev'ry  old,  wobble-shanked  son  of  a  gun 
Sets  up  there  and  tells  ye  how  he  would  have 

done ! 
— If  there's  any  one  job  gives  your  temper  an 

aidge, 

It's  drivin'  the  stage, 
• — It's  drivin'  the  stage. 


224  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  DOC  " 

In  his  big,  fur  coat  and  with  mittens  big  as 

hams, 
With  his  string  of  bells  a-jingling,  through  the 

country  side  he  slams. 
There  are  lots  of  calls  to  make  and  he's  always 

on  the  tear, 
A-looming  in  his  cutter  like  an  amiable  bear. 

And  it's  hi-i-i,  there! 
Johnny  don't  ye  care, 

Though   'tis   aching  something  awful  and   is 
most  too  much  to  bear. 
Just — be — gay ! 
As  soon  as  it  is  day, 

That  pain  will  go  a-flyin',  for  the  doctor's  on 
the  way. 

There  are  real,  true  saints;   there  are  angels  all 

around, 
But  there  isn't  one  that's  welcomer  than  he  is, 

I'll  be  bound. 
When  he  bustles  in  the  bed-room  and  he  dumps 

his  bufFler  coat, 
And  sticks  a  glass  thermometer  a-down  the 

suff'rin  throat. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS  225 

And  it's  chirk,  cheer  up! 
Mother,  bring  a  cup ! 

You're  going  to  like  this  bully  when  you  take 
a  little  sup. 

There — there — why, 
There's  a  twinkle  in  your  eye ! 
You'll  be  out  again  to-morrow,  bub ;   gid-dap, 
gid-dap,  good-bye! 


ANOTHER  "  TEA  REBELLION  " 

When  Mis'  Augusty  Nichols  joined  the  Tufts 

Minerva  Club, 

She  polished  up  on  manners  and  she  then  com 
menced  to  rub 
At  the  hide  of  Mister  Nichols  who,  while  not 

exactly  rude, 
Was  hardly  calculated  for  a  howling  sort  of 

dude. 
Now  when  Augusty  Nichols  got  to  see  how 

style  was  run, 
You  bet  she  went  for  Nichols  and  she  dressed 

him  down  like  fun; 
And  the  thing  in  all  his  actions  that  she  couldn't 

bear  to  see 
Was  to  have  him  fill  his  saucer  and  go  whoof- 

ling  up  his  tea. 


226  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

After  more'n  a  month  of  stewing; — making 
mis'able  his  life, 

She  taught  him  not  to  shovel  all  his  vittles 
with  his  knife. 

And  after  more'n  a  volume  of  pretty  spicy  talk 

She  got  him  in  the  hang  of  eating  pie  with  just 
his  fork. 

She  trained  him  so's  he  didn't  slop  the  vittles 
round  his  plate, 

She  plagued  him  till  he  wouldn't  sit  in  shirt 
sleeves  when  he  ate, 

And  then  she  tried  her  Waterloo,  with  faith  in 
.  high  degree 

That  she  could  revolutionize  his  way  of  drink 
ing  tea. 

He  drank  it  as  his  father  always  quaffed  the 
cheering  cup, 

He  poured  it  in  his  saucer,  raised  the  brimming 
puddle  up 

And  gathered  in  the  liquid  with  a  loud  re 
sounding  "  Swoof  " 

That  now  at  last  inspired  Mrs.  Nichols'  fierce 
reproof. 

But  here  was  where  the  victim — ah,  here  was 
where  the  worm 

Arose  and  fairly  scared  her  by  the  vigor  of  his 
squirm, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   227 

— Sat  down  his  steaming  saucer  and  with  a 
dangerous  light 

A-gleaming  in  his  visage,  he  upbore  a  Yan 
kee's  right. 

From  the  days  of  Boston's  party  up  to  now  I 
think  you'll  see 

That  a  Yankee's  independent  when  you  bother 
with  his  tea. 

"  Consarn  your  schoolmarm  notions,"  thun 
dered  Mrs.  Nichols'  spouse, 

"  You've  kept  a'dingin'  at  me  till  I'm  meechin 
round  the  house. 

I've  swallered  that  and  t'other  for  I  didn't  like 
to  row 

But  ye  ain't  a-going  to  boss  me  in  the  thing 
ye've  tackled  now. 

I'm  durned  if  I'll  be  scalded  all  the  time  I'm 
being  stung 

So  I'll  cool  my  tea,  Mis'  Nichols,  while  ye  jab 
me  with  your  tongue." 

There  are  rights  ye  cannot  smother,  tyrants, 

whoso'er  ye  be, 
And  the  good,  New  England  Yankee  's  mighty 

touchy,  sir,  on  tea. 


228  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

"  LIKE  AN  OLD  COW'S  TAIL  " 

When  I  was  a  youngster  and  lived  on  the  farm 
It  sickened  my  heart — did  that  morning  alarm ! 
When  dad  came  along  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
And  summoned  me  back  to  my  duties  and 

cares; 

— Put  all  of  my  glorious  visions  to  rout 
With  "  Breakfast  is  ready !     H'ist  out  there, 

h'ist  out!" 

And  when  I  came  yawningly,  sleepily  down, 
My   eyes   "  full   of   sticks "    and   my    face   all 

a- frown, 

I  got  for  a  greeting  this  jocular  hail, 
"  Wai,  always  behind  like  an  old  cow's  tail." 

I'll  own  to  you,  neighbor,  that  work  on  the 

farm 

Had  features  not  wholly  surrounded  by  charm. 
And  when  I  am  fashioning  lyrical  praise 
For  matters  bucolic  of  earlier  days. 
You'll  note  that  my  lyre,  sir,  operates  best 
When  I  tune  up  and  sing  of  the  blessings  of 

rest. 
I've  stood  in  the  stow-hole  and  "  tread  "  on  the 

load, 
And  waltzed  with  a  bush  scythe  and  worked 

on  the  road, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   229 

But    somehow    or   other    the   language    won't 

spring 

When  prowess  of  muscle  I  venture  to  sing. 
But  when  I  am  piping  of  "  resting  "  or  fun 
Or  lauding  the  time  after  chores  are  all  done, 
Why,    somehow — why,    blame   it,    as   sure   as 

you're  born, 

I  mentally  feel  that  my  trolley  is  on ! 
And  a  trolley,  you  know,  would  be  certain  to 

fail, 
Unless  'twas  behind  like  an  old  cow's  tail. 


PASSING  IT  ALONG 

The  elephant  he  started  in  and  made  tremen 
dous  fuss 

Alleging  he  was  crowded  by  the  hippopotamus; 

He  entertained  misgivings  that  the  earth  was 
growing  small, 

And  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  there  wasn't 
room  for  all. 

Then  the  hippo  got  to  thinking  and  he  was 
frightened  too 

And  so  he  passed  the  word  along  and  sassed  the 
kangaroo. 

The  kangaroo  as  promptly  took  alarm  and 
talked  of  doom 


230  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  ordered  all  the  monkeys  off  the  earth  to 

give  him  room. 
And  the  monkeys  jawed  the  squirrels  and  the 

squirrels  jawed  the  bees, 
While   the   bees  gave   Hail    Columby   to    the 

minges  and  the  fleas, 
— In  the  microscopic  kingdom  of  the  microbes, 

I  will  bet 
That  word  of  greedy  jealousy  is  on  its  travels 

yet; 
All  just  because  the  elephant  got  scared  and 

made  a  fuss 
Alleging  he  was  crowded  by  the  hippopotamus. 

A  SETTIN'  HEN 

When  a  hen  is  bound  to  set, 

Seems  as  though  'tain't  etiket 

Dowsin'  her  in  water  till 

She's  connected  with  a  chill. 

Seems  as  though  'twas  skursely  right 

Givin'  her  a  dreadful  fright, 

Tyin'  rags  around  her  tail, 

Poundin'  on  an  old  tin  pail, 

Chasin'  her  around  the  yard. 

— Seems  as  though  'twas  kind  of  hard 

Bein'  kicked  and  slammed  and  shooed 

'Cause  she  wants  to  raise  a  brood. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   231 

I  sh'd  say  it's  gettin'  gay 
Jest  'cause  natur'  wants  its  way. 
— While  ago  my  neighbor,  Penn, 
Started  bustin'  up  a  hen; 
Went  to  yank  her  off  the  nest, 
Hen,  though,  made  a  peck  and  jest 
Grabbed  his  thumb-nail  good  and  stout, 
Almost  yanked  the  darn  thing  out. 
Penn  he  twitched  away  and  then 
Tried  again  to  grab  that  hen. 
But,  by  ginger,  she  had  spunk 
'Cause  she  took  and  nipped  a  junk 
Big's  a  bean  right  out  his  palm, 
Swallered  it,  and  cool  and  calm 
Hi'sted  up  and  yelled  "  Cah-dah," 
— Sounded  like  she  said  "  Hoo-rah." 
Wai,  sir,  when  that  hen  done  that 
Penn  he  bowed,  took  off  his  hat, 
—Spunk  jest  suits  him,  you  can  bet, 
"  Set,"  says  he,  "  gol  darn  ye,  SET." 

BALLAD  OF  DEACON  PEASLEE 

There   was   Uncle   Ezry   Cyphers   and  Uncle 

Jonas  Goff, 
And  Deacon  Simon  Peaslee,  with  his  solemn 

vestry  cough; 


232  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Mis'  Ann  Matilda  Bellows  and  Aunt  Almiry 
Hunt, 

— At  all  the  social  meetings  they  performed 
their  earnest  stunt. 

They  were  strong  in  exhortation,  and  pro 
foundly  entertained 

The  belief  that  talking  did  it  if  a  Heavenly 
Home  were  gained. 

So  they  rose  on  Tuesday  evening,  at  Friday 
meeting,  too, 

And  informed  their  friends  and  neighbors  what 
the  sinners  ought  to  do; 

They  explained  the  route  to  Heaven  and  ex 
horted  all  to  go 
In  the  straight  and  narrow  pathway  through 

the  blandishments  below; 
They  were  good  and  they  were  earnest,  but, 

alas,  a  little  tame, 
For  month  by  month  and  year  by  year  their 

talks  were  just  the  same, 
Until  the  folks  who'd  listened  all  those  many 

years  could  start 
And  declaim  those  exhortations,  for  they  had 

'em  all  by  heart. 
And  those  old  folks  talked  so  constant  there 

was  scarcely  time  to  sing, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    233 

For  they  just  let  in  regardless  and  monopolized 
the  thing. 

Now,  benign  old  Parson  Johnson  died  at  last. 

There's  scarcely  doubt 
That  those  prosy   dissertations   sort  of  wore 

the  old  man  out. 
And  he  promptly  was  succeeded  ere  the  church 

had  dried  its  tears 
By  a  cocky,  youthful  pastor,  who  was  full  of 

new  ideas. 
Now,  he  sized  the  situation  ere  he'd  been  in 

town  a  week, 
And  he  set  to  work  to  fix  it  by  a  plan  that  was 

unique, 
For  he  saw  unless  he  did  so — and  the  Lord 

allowed  them  breath, 
Those  devoted  saints   would  surely  talk  that 

wearied  church  to  death. 

So  he  came  to  Tuesday  meeting  and  upon  his 

desk  he  placed 
A  nickeled  teacher's  call-bell  and  blandly  then 

he  faced 
An  astonished  congregation  and  explained  he 

thought  it  best 
To  condense  the   exhortations   so   as   not  to 

crowd  the  rest; 


234          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


For  he  said  that  in  the  worship  all  the  members 

ought  to  share, 
And  monopoly  of  talking  by  the  elders  wasn't 

fair; 
Therefore,  each  could  have  five  minutes,  and 

he'd  ring  to  let  each  know 
When  'twas  time  to  cut  the  discourse  and  give 

t'other  one  a  show. 

There  were  scowls  from  Uncle  Ezry — there 
were  grunts  from  Uncle  Goff, 

And  Deacon  Simon  Peaslee  gave  a  scornful 
vestry  cough. 

Then  he  laid  his  cane  beside  him  and  he  strug 
gled  to  his  feet 

And  commenced  his  regular  discourse  in  re 
gard  to  tares  and  wheat. 

He  was  scarcely  fairly  going  on  the  punish 
ments  of  hell 

When  the  pastor  smiled  and  nodded  and  ding- 
clink-ling  went  the  bell ! 

All  the  old  folks  gasped  in  horror  and  a  titter 
soft  and  low 

Ran  along  the  youthful  sinners  who  were  back 
on  Devil's  Row; 

And  for  just  a  thrilling  instant  Deacon  Simon 
lost  his  force, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   235 

With  astonished  jaws  a-gaping — then  continued 
on  his  course. 

To  the  pastor's  youthful  visage  swept  a  sudden 

flush  of  wrath, 
As  the  obstinate  old  deacon  brushed  him  calmly 

from  his  path, 
And  with  all  the  college  muscle  that  he  had  at 

his  command 
The  parson  cuffed  the  call-bell  with  a  swift 

and  steady  hand. 
There  was  riot  in  the  vestry — deacon  vieing 

with  the  bell, 
As  he  strove  to  paint  the  terrors  of  the  hot, 

John  Wesley  hell, 
Till  at  last  he  balked  and  stuttered,  gasped  a 

while  and  tried  to  speak, 
Then  sat  down  with  tears  a-dropping  through 

the  furrows  on  his  cheek. 
There  he  bent  in  voiceless  anguish  with  his  old 

gray  head  bowed  low, 
While  the  hushed  and  pitying  people  mourned 

to  see  him  grieving  so; 
And  the  parson  left  the  platform  and  contritely 

crept  across 
To  the  side  of  Deacon  Simon  and  expressed  his 

deep  remorse. 


236  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

r- — — — — • • 

But  the  deacon  raised  his  visage,  and,  with  tears 

still  streaming  down, 
Glared  upon  his  trembling  pastor  with  a  fierce 

and  scornful  frown. 
"  Drat  yer  hide,"  roared  Deacon  Simon,  "  do 

ye  think  that  leetle  bell 
Scart  a  warrior  sech  as  I  am  out  of  talking 

truths  on  hell? 
'Tain't  no  passon  sets  me  down,  sah!     'Tain't 

no  bell  ye  ever  saw, 
But  ye  went  and  got  me  narvous  and  ye've 

made  me  eat  my  chaw." 

Then  the  deacon,  stern  and  angry,  arm  in  arm 

with  Jonas  Goff, 
And  with  Uncle  Cyphers  trailing,  stalked  in 

righteous  dudgeon  off, 
And  the  sympathizing  parish  held  a  meeting 

there  and  then, 
And  extolled  the  absent  deacon  as  the  most 

abused  of  men; 
And  the  parson's  walking  papers  hit  his  neck 

below  the  jaw 
In  about  the  same  location  that  the  deacon  lost 

his  chaw. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    237 


THE  WORST  TEACHER 

That  teacher  was  the  worst  we  ever  tackled, 

He  warn't  so  very  tall,  and  he  zvas  light. 

— //  is   best  to   lay  your  egg   before  you've 

cackled, 
Though  ive  never  had  a  notion  he  could  fight. 

He  acted  sort  of  meechin'  when  he  opened  up 

the  school, 
— We  sort  of  got  the  notion  he  was  "  It " — 

and  we  tagged  gool, 
We  gave  him  lots  of  jolly  in  a  free  and  easy 

way, 
And  showed  him  how  we  handled  guys  as  got 

to  acting  gay. 
We  showed  him  where  the  other  one  had  torn 

away  the  door 
When  we  lugged  him  out  and  dumped  him  in 

the  snow  the  year  before. 
And  soon's  we  thought  we'd  scared  him,  we  sat 

and  chawed  and  spit, 
And  kind  o'  thought  we'd  run  the  school — con- 

cludin'  he  was  "  It." 

It  worked  along  in  that  way,  sir,  till  Friday 
afternoon. 


238  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

— We  hadn't  lugged  him  out  that  week,  but 

'lowed  to  do  it  soon. 
That  Friday,  'long  about  three  o'clock,  he  said 

there'd  be  recess, 
And  said,  "  The  smaller  kids  and  girls  can  go 

for  good,  I  guess." 
And  he  mentioned  smooth  and  smily,  but  with 

kind  of  greenish  eyes, 
That  the  big  boys  were  requested  to  remain 

for  exercise. 

And  when  he  called  us  in  again  he  up  and 
locked  the  door, 

Shucked  off  his  co't  and  weskit,  took  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor, 

And  talked  about  gymnastys  in  a  quiet  little 
speech, 

— Then  he  made  a  pass  at  Haskell,  who  was 
nearest  one  in  reach. 

'Twas  hot  and  stiff  and  sudden  and  it  took  him 
on  the  jaw, 

And  that  was  all  the  exercise  the  Haskell  feller 
saw. 

Then  jumpin'  over  Haskell's  seat,  he  sauntered 

up  the  aisle, 
A-hittin'  right  and  hittin'  left  and  wearin'  that 

same  smile. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   239 

And  when  a  feller  started  up  and  tried  to  hit 

him  back, 
'Twas  slipper-slapper,  whacko-cracker,  whango- 

bango-crack ! ! 
And  never,  sir,  in  all  your  life,  did  you  see 

flippers  whiz 
In  such  a  blame,  chain-lightnin'  style  as  them 

'ere  hands  of  his. 

And  though  we  hit  and  though  we  dodged — or 
rushed  by  twos  and  threes, 

He  simply  strolled  around  that  room  and  licked 
us  all  with  ease. 

And  when  the  thing  was  nicely  done,  he 
dumped  us  in  the  yard, 

He  clicked  the  padlock  on  the  door  and  passed 
us  all  a  card. 

And  this  was  what  was  printed  there :  "  Pro 
fessor  Joseph  Tate, 

Athletics  made  a  specialty  and  champion  mid 
dleweight." 

That  teacher  was  the  ivorst  we  ever  tackled, 

He  ivarn't  so  very  tall  and  he  ivas  light. 

— It  is   best  to   lay  your  egg   before  you've 

cackled, 
Though  we  never  had  a  notion  he  could  fight. 


240  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

THE  TUCKVILLE  GRAND  BALL 

Orig-en  Dickerson  called  the  figgers 

With  a  voice  like  a  cart  ex  that  needed  some 

grease. 

He  and  his  partner  would  fiddle  like  niggers 
For  supper  an'  dollar  an'  fifty  apiece. 
With  forty  couple  upon  the  floor — 
There  wasn't  an  inch  for  no  one  more, 
We  done  the  honors  for  all  three  towns 
At  the  high,  old  Tuckville  spanker-downs. 
Yeak,  yawk, 

Grab  for  your  pardners ! 
Yawk,  yawk, 
Wo'  hi-i-ish  inter  line! 
Yankity,  yump-de, 

Yankity,  yah-h  de! 
— For  a  fife  and  two  fiddles  that  music  was 

fine. 
And  we  pelted  the  floor  and  sashayed  through 

the  door, 
And  balanced  to  pardners  and  sashayed  some 

more. 
And    when    we    got    orders    to    "  all    hands 

around !  " 
Warn't  half  of  the  girls  that  could  stay  on  the 

ground. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   241 

For-rud  and  back!     Wo'  haw,  there,  to  Ella. 
Wo'  buck  inter  line  and  balance  to  Grace. 
Grab  holt  o'  hands,  there,  and  swing  by  yer 

feller, 
Clek — clek,  gid-dap-along,  git  inter  place. 

And  the  dust  would  rise  and  the  lamps  would 

shake 
Till   ye'd   think  their   chimblys   was   goin'   to 

break. 

For  we  'tended  to  dancin'  right  up  brown 
At  a  high  old  Tuckville  spanker-down. 

Squeak,  squawk, 

Pick  out  yer  feller ! 
Raw-w-wk,  raw-w-wk, 

Form  on  your  set ! 
High-deedle,  do-o-o  de, 

High-deedle,  dah-h-h-de! 
We  swung  by  the  waist  in  them  dances,  you 

bet. 
There  wasn't  kid  slippers,  there  wasn't  tight 

boots, 
There  wasn't  silk  dresses,  there  wasn't  dude 

suits, 

There  wasn't  no  banquet — ten  dollars  for  two — 
But  a  good  brimmin'  bowlful  of  hot  oyster 
stew. 


242  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

We'd  darnce  twenty  numbers  and  all  the  en 
cores, 
— Get  home  in  the  mornin'  'bout  time  for  the 

chores — 

And  all  the  next  day  the  work  was  like  play, 
The  girls  doin'   housework  would  waltz  and 

sashay; 

The  boys  would  astonish  the  stock  in  the  yard 
By  forgettin'  and  yellin',  "  Hi,  all  promunard !  " 

Hi-i-i,  yah-h-h! 

Ladies  to  center,  there! 
Hi-i-i,  yah-h-h! 

Balance  ye  all! 
Wo'  hi-ish  up  the  middle,  bear  down  on  the 

fiddle, 

By  ginger,  'twas  fun  at  the  Tuckville  Grand 
Ball. 

THE  ONE-RING  SHOW 

The  street  parade  was  gorgeous  and  the  show 
was  mighty  fine 

— Them  fellers  on  the  trick  trapeze  was  cork 
ers  in  their  line, 

And  all  the  lady  riders  was  as  pretty  as  they're 
made, 

And  kept  the  climate  fully  up  to  ninety  in  the 
shade. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   243 

The  chaps  that  did  the  tumbling  acts  and  every 

funny  clown 
Was  just  as  slick  an  article  as  ever  came  to 

town. 
I've  got  to  tell  you,  neighbor,  that  it  all  was  up 

in  G, 
Including  all   the  things   I   saw   and   what   I 

didn't  see. 
But  though  I  did  a  master  sight  of  rubber- 

neckin'  'round, 

A-lookin'  here  and  gawpin'  there,  why,  gra 
cious,  me,  I  found 
From  what  the   folks  have  told   me  since,   I 

missed  the  finest  things, 
— I  hadn't  eyes  and  neck  enough  for  all  them 

three  big  rings. 
And  honest,  if  I  had  my  choice,  I'd  good  deal 

ruther  go 
To  just  a  good,  old-fashioned  sort  of  hayseed, 

one-ring  show. 

The  people  used  to  gather  when  Van  Amburgh 
came  to  town 

With  a  lion  and  an  elephant,  a  camel  and  a 
clown. 

There  wasn't  "  miles  of  splendor,"  as  the  cir 
cus  programs  say, 


244  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

But  folks  got  up  at  daylight,  drove  in  early  in 

the  day; 
And  they  perched  along  the  fences  while  the 

dozen  carts  or  so 
Came  trailin'  through  the  village  with  the  old 

Van  Amburgh  show. 
It  wasn't  just  "  stupendous,"  but  the  people 

didn't  jeer 
And  say  it  wasn't  up  to  what  the  circus  was 

last  year ! 
O,  no,  they  crunched  their  peanuts  and  they 

took  things  as  they'd  come, 
And  heard  a  lot  of  music  in  the  rump-rump  of 

the  drum. 
For  things,  you  know,  seemed  fresher  in  the 

days  when  we  were  young, 
And  tinsel  passed  for  solid  stuff  when  lady 

riders   sprung 
Through  papered  hoops,  or  danced  and  frisked 

upon  their  charger's  rump 
And  vaulters  spun  to  dizzy  heights  with  one 

jer-oosly  jump. 
They  did  those  ding-does  master  fine    some 

twenty  years  ago 
And  you  never  missed  a  wiggle  at  a  one  ring 

show. 
I  won't  pick  flaws  with  modern  ways  of  doing 

all  these  things, 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    245 

For  folks  have  got  to  living  on  the  gauge  of 

three  big  rings. 
But  while  the  whirl  is  going  on,  it  seems,  my 

friend,  to  me 
That  half  of  what  goes  past  your  nose  is  things 

that  you  don't  see. 
And  when  the  angel  cries,   "  All  done,"  and 

when  the  lights  go  out, 

You'll  jostle  to  the  dark  Beyond  amidst  a  diz 
zied  rout. 
And  life  that's  lived  at  three  ring  pace  I  fear 

will  only  seem 
A  useless  sort  of  patchwork  thing — a  mixed- 

up  fruitless  dream. 
Why  wasn't  "  father's  way  "  the  best?  Though 

there  was  less  array, 
Though  men  had  less  of  creeds  and  cults  than 

what  they  have  to-day, 
The  old  folks  then  from  Life's  great  tent  went 

slowly  thronging  out 
With  calm,  well-ordered  years  behind,  unvexed 

by  care  or  doubt. 
And  though  in  old  Van  Amburgh's  days  the 

thing  moved  rather  slow, 
You  didn't  sprain  your  moral  neck  in  looking 

at  Life's  Show. 


246  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

THE  SWITCH  FOR  HIRAM  BROWN 

That   Hiram  Brown  he  come  to  school   and 

brung  in  seven  ticks; 
He  picked  them  off  his  father's  sheep — jes'  like 

his  dratted  tricks ! 
One  day  that  critter  put  a  toad  right  in  our 

teacher's  chair, 
She  squatted  down — and  then  got  up!     And 

warn't  she  mad  for  fair? 
He  brung  in  crawly  bugs  and  things,  a  mouse 

and  onct  a  rat, 
An'   then   he   sort   o'    wound   things   up   with 

suthin'  wusser'n  that. 
The  teacher  cotched  him  that  time,  though,  and 

my!    she  combed  him  down 
An'  I  was  sent  to  cut  the  switch  that  walloped 

Hiram  Brown. 

Them  ticks  was  in  a  pill-box  doctor  left  when 

Bill  was  sick, 
An'    they    was   measly    lookin'    things; — say, 

j'ever  see  a  tick? 
While  we  was  readin'  testermunt  Hi   stirred 

'em  writh  a  pin, 
— We  all  was  wond'rin'  what  he'd  got,  for  he 

was  on  the  grin. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    247 

Then  when   the  teacher  turned  her  back,   Hi 

made  for  Ozy  Blair 
An'  turned  the  whole  blamed  seven  ticks  right 

loose  in  Ozy's  hair. 
Then  Ozy  had  a  spasm  fit  like  what  he's  sub- 

jick  to; 
He  squalled  and  clawed  and  bumped  around  till 

he  was  black  an'  blue. 
An'    teacher   took   her   fine-toothed   comb   an' 

raked  an'  scraped  his  head, 
— It  come  nigh  bustin'  up  the  school  that  way 

that  he  raised  Ned ! 
The  teacher  made  us  all  set  up  as  stiff  and 

straight  as  sticks, 
An'  then  says  she,  all  raspy-like,  "  Who  was  it 

brung  them  ticks  ?  " 
We    couldn't    help    it — swow    to    man! — We 

looked  at  Hiram  Brown 
An'  Hi  he  set  there  redd'nin'  up  and  sort  o' 

lookin'  down. 
An'  teacher  sniffed  an'  then  she  scowled  an' 

giv'  her  sleeves  a  twitch, 
An'  turned  to  me  an'  then  says  she,  "  Ike,  go 

an'  cut  a  switch." 

'Twas  dretful  nice  outdoors  that  day — it  set  a 
feller  wishin' 


248  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

That  he  could  cut  an'  run  from  school  an'  put 

his  time  in  fishin'. 
'Twas  one  them  soft'nin'  sort  of  days  an'  while 

I  was  a-pickin' 
A  switch,  it  come  acrost  me  what  a  shame  to  git 

a  lickin' 
On  such  a  mighty  pleasant  day.     So  I  shinned 

up  a  tree 
An'  cut  a  slimpsy  popple  switch  that  wouldn't 

hurt  a  flea. 
Then  I  went  in — there  teacher  was,  a-waitin' 

by  the  door, 
The  scholars  set  as  still  as  death  an'  Bill  stood 

in  the  floor. 
But  how  they   snickered   when   they  see  that 

dinky  little  switch, 
— The  teacher  broke  it  up  on  me  an'  giv'  my 

ear  a  twitch, 
Says  she,  "  You  try  that  on  agin,  you'll  git  it 

worse,  you  clown! 
Now  go,  an'  see  'f  you  know  enough  to  cut 

that  switch  for  Brown." 

Seems  's  if  it  warn't  so  nice  outdoors.     It  kind 

o'  stirred  my  mad 
To  divvy  up  that  way  with  Hi — 'Cause  'twasn't 

me  'twas  bad! 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    249 

Says  I,  "  By  jing,  I'll  even  up."     I  took  my 

biggest  blade 
An'  cut  a  switch  that,  honest  true,  it  almost 

made  me  'fraid. 
I  didn't  trim  it  very  clus' — by  snummy,  I  felt 

wicked, 
I  left  the  knobs  all  stickin'  out — an'  some  of  'em 

was  pick-ed. 
I  passed  'er  in.     The  teacher  she  ker-wished  it 

through  the  air, 
An'   Hi  he   shivered;    'twas  enough  to  fairly 

curl  his  hair. 
She  fixed  her  hairpins  so's  her  pug  it  couldn't 

tumble  down, 
An'  then  says  she,  like  bitin'  nails,  "  Take  off 

your  coat,  Hi  Brown." 

Then   Hiram   Brown   he  got   right  down   an' 

begged  an'  teased  an'  prayed, 
She  hit  him  once — an  easy  clip — an'  then  he 

fairly  brayed. 
He  acted  out  in  master  style; — why,  sence  he's 

come  of  age 
He's  makin'  money  like  all  sin,  plav-actin'  on 

the  stage. 
Our  teacher   was   an   easy  mark — the  tender 

hearted  kind — 


250  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 


When  Hiram  got  to  takin'  on  she  went  and 

changed  her  mind. 
Says  she,  "  You've  been  a  naughty  boy  but  if 

you  now  repent 
I'll  spare  the  rod  but  punish  you  in  this  way." 

Jee,  she  went 
An'  sent  that  Hi  acrost  the  room  to  sit  with 

Helen  Dean, 
The  girl  I  liked  the  best  in  school ;  an'  Hi  was 

jest  serene! 
That  warn't  the  wust,  for  after  school  he  licked 

me  like  the  deuce 

Because  I  left  them  knobs  all  on.     Oh,  thun 
der,  what's  the  use 
Of  tryin'  to  be  good,  sometimes?     I  know  it's 

wicked  talk 
To  intimate  that  vice  may  ride  when  virtue  has 

to  walk ; 
To  hint  that  folks  of  honest  ways  but  moderate 

in  wits 
May  have  their  noses  rubbed  in  dirt  by  rascal 

hypocrites, 

But  truly,  friends,  it  does  appear  that  only  mar 
tyrs'  crowns 
Are  passed  to  worth  clown  here  on  earth; — the 

rest  to  Hiram  Browns. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   251 


THE  JUMPER 

Ba  gor!     J  jomp  an'  jomp  all  tarn' 
Bot  jos'  can't  halp  clat — dere  she  am ! 
Cos'  vv'en  som'  fellaire  he  say  "  Boo!  " 
Morgee !     I  jomp  an'  holler,  too. 

Long  tarn',  'way  back  ma  broder,  Joe, 
Hav'  gon  'roun'  house,  an'  off  she  go. 
—Go  bang,  r-rat  clos'  op  side  ma  ear; 
Sence  w'en  I  ac'  dis  way — dat  queer ! 
I  tak'  med'ceen — don't  geet  som'  cure. 
Gass  I  got  jomp-ops  now  for  sure. 
An'  mos'  all  tarn'  som'  son  er  gon 
T'ink  mak'  me  jomp — wal,  dat  ban  fon. 

I'll  tal  yo'  wan  t'ing  dat  ban  true — 

Las'  spreeng  dey  beelcl  dat  r-ra'ltrack  t'rough 

R-rat  pas'  ma  house,  an'  w'at  yo'  s'pose? 

Dem  ra'ltrack  fellaircs,  wal,  he  goes 

Sot  pos'  for  whees-el  side  ma  door, 

An'  den — wal,  p'rap  I  didn't  swore ! 

Wan  tra'n  com'  pas'  long  jos'  'bout  noon, 

An'  go  "  whoot-toot !  "     Wal,  bamby,  soon, 

Wa'n't  no  whol'  deeshes  'round — for  why? 

'Cos',  sacre,  I  jomp  op  sky-high 

An'  keeck  dat  table  'roun'  dat  plac' 

An'  lat  som'  howl  com'  off  ma  face. 


252  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Dat  vife  he  skeer  mos'  near  on  death, 
An'  all  dem  shildreen  hoi'  deir  breath 
For  saw  deir  fadder  ac'  lak'  dat 
An'  geeve  dose  dinnaire  wan  beeg  slat. 

An'  wan  tra'n  she  go  pas'  on  night, 
Long  'bout  de  tarn'  I  sle'p  mos'  tight. 
An'  w'en  she  whees-el,  "  Whoot-too-too !  " 
I  jomp  lak'  wil'  cat,  I  tal  you. 
I  heet  ma  vife  gre't  beeg  hard  slams 
An'  black  her  eye  mos'  seexteen  tarn's. 
Till  las'  she  go  off  sle'p  down  stair, 
— She  say  I  worse  as  greezly  bear, 
Bot  w'at  yo'  t'ink  ?     I  swore  dis  true, 
I  nevaire  know  w'at  t'ing  I  do. 

Wai,  w'en  t'ings  geet  bos'  op  dat  way, 

I  ban  saw  ra'ltrack  boss  wan  day. 

I  tal  heem  'bout  I  poun'  ma  vife, 

— Can't  halp  dat  t'ing  for  save  ma  life — 

An'  he — he  blor-rt,  lak'  wan  gre't  caff, 

An'  lean  way  back  an'  laff  an'  laff. 

I  don't  saw  nottin's  dere  for  fon 

'Bout  havin'  dat  ol'  ra'ltrack  ron 

Op  pas'  ma  house  an'  hav'  dem  car 

Mak'  me  bos'  op  ma  home,  ba  gar! 

I  tol'  heem  dat  bam-by  dat  soun' 

Ban  mak'  me  keeck  dat  whol'  house  down. 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS    253 

"  I'll  tal  yo'  w'at,"  say  he  bam-by, 
• — He  wap'  hees  eye  off  lak'  he  cry — 
"  I'll  tol'  yo'  w'at  dees  ro'd  weell  do: 
We'll  send  op  our  construckshong  crew, 
We'll  beeld,  to  show  dat  we  hain't  mean, 
Wan  good,  beeg  cage  an'  pot  yo'  een." 

Ba  gar !     Dat  all  I  geet  off  heem ! 
— I  weesh  dey  not  fin'  out  dat  steam! 


ISHMAEL'S  BREED 

Horde  of  the  Great  Unwashed!     Hobo   and 

moucher  and  bum, 

Vag  and  yag  and  grafter  and  tramp,  we  care 
lessly  go  and  come. 
Of  the  morrow  we  take  no  heed,  no  care  infests 

the  day, 
Plenty  of  gump  and  a  train  to  jump — a  grip  on 

the  rods  and  away ! 
To  the  grab  for  the  gear  of  greed  we  give  no 

thought  or  care, 
We  own  with  you  the  arch  of  blue — our  share 

of  God's  good  air; 
— A  coin  to  clear  the  law,  a  section  of  rubber 

hose 
To  soften  the  chafe  of  the  truss  and  rod — our 

portion  of  cast-off  clothes; 


254          PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

And  ours  the  world — the  world!    a  heritage 

won  by  right, 
— By  tacit  deed  to  the  nomad  breed  with  the 

taint  of  the  Ishmaelite. 
Some  from  the  wastes  of  the  sage-brush, 

some  from  the  orange  land, 
Some  from  "  God's  own  country,"  dusty  and 

tattered  and  tanned. 

Wherefore?     Tis   idle   to   tell   you — you'd 
never  understand. 
Hither  and  fro, 
We  come — we  go, 
Old  Father  Ishmael's  band. 

Yags-will  sometimes  walk,  a  tramp  will  hit  the 

grit, 
But  a  hobo  never  will  count  the  ties  so  long  as 

he  keeps  his  wit. 
There's  the  truss  of  the  Wagner  freight,  the 

rods  and  the  jolting  truck, 
You  can  grab  and  swing  at  the  yard-line  post 

if  you've  muscle  enough  and  pluck. 
There's  the  perch  of  the  pilot,  too,  where  you're 

target  for  lumps  of  coal, 
For  a  shack  or  a  fireman  never  thinks  we've 

either  nerves  or  soul. 

If  you've  taken  the  full  degrees  and  have  cov 
ered  the  "  Honey  Route," 


BALLADS  of  CAPERS  and  ACTIONS   255 

Have  fired  a  rock  at  the  "  Fox  Train  crew,"  and 

knocked  a  Doughface  out, 
You  are  man  for  the  king-pin  act !     Here's  hop 
ing  you  have  success 
When  you  risk  your  neck  on  the  smoke-swept 

"  deck  "  of  the  Limited  Express. 
Some  from  the  slopes  of  the  Rockies,  some 

from  the  Ogden  route, 
Where  the  meek  old  Mormon  matrons  hand 

the  milk  and  honey  out, 
— West    and    south    and    northward — and 
t'other  way  about, 

On  tank  and  wall, 
You'll  find  the  scrawl 
Of  the  tramp's  monarka-scout. 

Taint  of  the  nomad's  blood !    God,  if  we  could 

but  burst 
From  the  thrall  of  vags  and  drop  our  rags  and 

cleave  to  the  best — not  worst ! 
Each   day  on   a  town's   main-drag,   as   we're 

flaggin'  some  house  for  prog, 
The  smile  of  a  child  or  a  maiden's  face  will  give 

our  hearts  a  jog. 

And  I — yes,  even  I,  have  flicked  at  a  sudden  tear 
And  have  turned  my  back  on  Smoky  Jack  lest 

he  see  the  thing  and  jeer. 


256  PINE  TREE  BALLADS 

Spur  of  the  nomad's  taint!     Back  to  the  ring 
ing  rails 
That   coaxingly   curve   to   the    far   unknown! 

Confusion  to  courts  and  jails ! 
The  "goat"  is  coughing  the  grade;    grab  for 

the  rods,  there,  Jack, 
Look  out  for  your  grip,  for  a  bit  of  a  slip  will 

toss  you  to  grease  the  track. 
Bound  for  the  Greasers'  sage-brush,  under 

the  roaring  train, 
Decking  the  fast  expresses  from  Texas  north 

to  Maine, 

Grimy  and  tattered  and  blinded,   Ishmael's 
blood  our  bane, 

We  ride — we  ride, 
To  hope  denied, 
Cursed  with  the  curse  of  Cain. 


12171 


DATE  DUE 


A     000  568  961     7 


